


Fools Rush In

by origamifrogs



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Accidental Marriage, Alternate Universe - Human, Companionable Snark, Homophobia, Las Vegas, M/M, Road Trips, Romance, Sexuality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-09
Updated: 2015-01-09
Packaged: 2018-03-06 22:15:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 30,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3150236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/origamifrogs/pseuds/origamifrogs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Stiles wakes up in his hotel bed in Las Vegas, sticky eyes blinking open to the sight of a stranger sleeping beside him. </p><p>A stranger who is male. </p><p>And naked.</p><p>Stiles promptly falls out of bed."</p><p> </p><p>Or, the one where Stiles and Derek get drunk in Las Vegas, accidentally get married, go on a road trip, and find love along the way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Polski available: [Z motyką na słońce](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10739445) by [lilyan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilyan/pseuds/lilyan)



Tequila, Stiles has determined through numerous trials and errors, mainly of the college party variety, is his greatest weakness. His arch enemy. The Joker to his Batman. The Shredder to his Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle. 

Stiles' latest error has left him tangled in the blankets of his hotel bed in Las Vegas, sticky eyes blinking open to the sight of a stranger sleeping beside him.

A stranger who is _male._

And _naked._

Stiles promptly falls out of bed.

He hits the carpet with a dull thump and groans, his stomach scolding him with a sharp cramp. As he curls in on himself, thinking, _what the hell_ , he realizes his memory of last night is full of black spots, starting with him and Scott at a bar, followed by him raising a beer to his mouth, falling from his stool, a hand helping him up, ending with—nothing. Darkness.

His mouth tastes bitter; he and Scott had been in Vegas for less than twenty-four hours, and he’s already managed to embarrass the holy hell out of himself. What did he even do? Black out and sleep with some—some _guy_? Is that even the _worst_ of it? Could it _get_ any worse?

Stiles presses his forehead against the floor and takes a deep breath. The space behind his left eye is pulsing, stabbing away like a swinging pick axe, but his stomach is mostly settled. He peeks his head over the side of the mattress and—fuck it all, this really isn’t a dream or some hungover hallucination.

There is definitely a heavily stubbled, ablicious guy sleeping in Stiles’ hotel bed.

And he is so very, _very_ naked.

Stiles squeezes his eyes shut. He’s a rational adult, a grown-up who does his own taxes and bathes regularly without prompting. He does big, responsible things on a daily basis. He can handle one more.

“Hey, guy.” Stiles reaches over to poke one finger at the man’s unfairly rounded bicep. The guy groans and shoves his face further into his pillow. “No, no,” Stiles says with another poke. “Time to wake up and realize the severity of our situation.”

There’s more grumbling, until Mr. Stubble finally rolls over like he’s getting nice and comfy to shoot his full frontal for some porn mag. Stiles shoots his eyes up to the ceiling. There’s a weird, yellowing stain right above his head.

Mr. Stubble squints at Stiles. “You’re...still here?”

“Yes,” Stiles grits, the headache from his hangover swelling into something vicious. “As per custom, a person tends to reside in their own hotel room.”

Stiles spots his boxers in a far corner, by the door. Did they get thrown over there? Jesus.

“Shit,” Mr. Stubble says, rubbing a hand down his face. “Then _I’m_ still here.”

“And a massive dick, apparently,” Stiles mumbles, slowly crawling over to his underwear, sheets wrapped around him, his makeshift toga of modesty.

Mr. Stubble snorts, mattress squeaking as he begins to sit up. “You weren’t complaining last night.”

Stiles flushes so quickly he’s sure there’s no blood left in his toes. “I’m not—would you just—put on some clothes, please? Underwear, maybe. Socks. A parka.”

Mr. Stubble tilts his head. “We didn’t have sex. If you can’t remember.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, picking up his boxers. He slowly pushes himself up from the floor, clutching the blankets tightly around his waist. “You can call it ‘making love’ as much as you want, buddy. I’m not doing you any favors.”

“No, no,” Mr. Stubble says, pressing his lips together like he’s trying not to laugh. “When we got into the hotel room you started doing this—this weird dance. I think you called it the ‘Mating of the Songbirds’? Then you threw your clothes all over the place. But you passed out right when you hit the bed.”

Oh, Jesus Lord All Mighty. Stiles’ face grows even hotter. Not his mating dance. That was perfected in college. And then left there, hidden in the underbelly of Sigma Mu Delta’s frat house.

“Wait. Then why are _you_ naked?” Stiles asks, now concerned with the level of skeeviness of the guy he’s currently trapped in his room with. “Just felt like you needed to join the party?”

Mr. Stubble doesn’t look embarrassed at all; Stiles probably wouldn't either if his body looked like it was made of marble. “You made me strip, too. You were... very insistent.”

“But we didn’t have sex?” Stiles clarifies.

Mr. Stubble shakes his head. “I fell asleep right along with you.”

The knot in Stiles chest, which had been growing tighter and tighter since he’d woken, begins to unravel. He can breath a little bit easier, now.

“Even if I had stayed awake, we were both way too drunk to do anything,” Mr. Stubble says.

Stiles gives a silent thanks to his drunk self for still managing to avoid attracting a real creep, even in his addled state. “Do you remember anything about last night?” He stares down at his boxers, fiddling with the waistband. “Because I gotta tell you, man, I’m drawing a total blank. On all of it.”

"Just drinking at the bar, some flashes of the end of the night. That’s it, really.”

Stiles sighs. He’s not surprised at all. “So, just all the parts where I embarrassed myself?”

Mr. Stubble doesn’t reply. Stiles looks up and sees that he’s staring at his hand, a panicked expression on his face.

That’s when Stiles catches the glint of a silver band on Mr. Stubble’s finger, thinks _oh shit_ three times in a row, and looks down at his own hand. He either stripped and pretended to shake his tail feather at a married man, or—

“I think we might have gotten married,” Mr. Stubble says, eyes wide, just as Stiles sees the matching ring on his own finger.

“You’re fucking kidding me,” Stiles breathes, holding his hand up closer to his face. “I didn’t even know this was a thing that actually _happened_.”

He drops the bed sheets. He’d waved his dick around plenty last night and now they’re married— _they’re married_ _—_ so there’s no more room for modesty, is there?

“Would you get dressed?” Stiles cries. It’s like he’s just found the best cure for a hangover ever, seeing as he doesn't feel sick anymore. Now it’s just pure, blind panic swelling through him. He jumps into each leg of his boxers as quickly as he can. “We got _drunk-married_ in _Vegas_ last night! Show a little concern!”

But Mr. Stubble only rolls over onto his back on the bed and holds his ring up closely in front of his face. He squints at it and mutters, “Silver. So tacky. Where did this even come from?”

“Who cares!” Stiles flaps his arms, searching the room for his shirt, finding it on one of the arms of the ceiling fan. Come _on._ “Would you do something? Our lives have turned into that episode of _Friends_! The one where Ross and Rachel draw all over their faces in permanent marker? And then get married? Oh God, do I have, like, a grossly detailed but weirdly accurate drawing of a dick on my face?”

“Pancakes,” Mr. Stubble mumbles, slipping the ring back on his finger.

Stiles presses his hand to his cheek. “Pancakes? I have pancakes on my face?”

“No. I want to eat pancakes.”

“Food?” Stiles says as soon as he pushes his head through the hole of his shirt. “You want food? I want a divorce!”

Mr. Stubble rolls his eyes. “I’m not dealing with any of this—” He waves a hand at Stiles, who crosses his arms over his chest. We can’t all be GQ models, thank you very much. “—until I have a cup of coffee. At least.”

Stiles’ eye twitches. “I’ll hold your head up and help you drink a hundred cups of coffee if you would just cover yourself up!”

“Jesus, all right,” Mr. Stubble says, throwing his legs over the side of the bed. Stiles’ pants are in a pile by the bathroom door and he moves to pick them up. “You didn’t seem this uncomfortable with the idea last night.”

Stiles swallows, twisting his jeans in his hands. Because here’s the real truth of it, more embarrassing than getting trashed in Vegas, or waking up naked next to a stranger, or even realizing you married them and probably sealed the deal with a big, slobbery kiss in front of some guy dressed as Elvis getting paid eight bucks an hour.

“I’m not even gay, all right?” Stiles admits. “Or bi, or curious, or bored. I’m not—I’ve never—I have no idea what got into me last night.”

Mr. Stubble sighs, resting his forehead against his hands. “Awesome,” he mutters, like the gravity of this whole shitfest has finally, _finally_ hit him. He moves a little bit quicker getting his briefs on, at least.

“Those fucking tequila shots,” Mr. Stubble suddenly groans. “Fucking Laura. Jesus. Wait. Where’s my phone?”

Stiles does up the belt on his jeans. “Check the nightstand, maybe. Or your pants?” Mr. Stubble grabs his jeans from where they’re shoved at bottom of the bed and slips his hand into the front pocket, pulling out his cell.

Stiles takes his wallet out from his front pocket, which is—

Totally empty. _Awesome._

“Shit,” Mr. Stubble says, frowning hard at his phone screen.

"What? What’s wrong?” Stiles asks.

“My sister, Laura, who was my ride out of here, seems to have gone off on an early honeymoon.” Mr. Stubble throws his phone onto the bed, putting on his jeans with stiff, jerky movements.

“You were here for her wedding?”

Stiles tosses him his shirt. Slipping it on, Mr. Stubble says, “Honeymoons are usually what happen after weddings, yes.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Oh, why don’t you and your stubble fall off your high, sarcastic horses. You can probably hitch a ride with one of the other guests, then, right?”

Mr. Stubble frowns, face suddenly growing heavy. "No, it wasn’t—it was just us. Me and my sister and her new husband.”

“A shotgun wedding in Vegas. Very classy.” Stiles finds his phone in one of the potted, fake ferns in the corner of the room. He brushes the dirt off, pressing down on the power button.

“At least they were two sober, consenting adults,” Mr. Stubble huffs, uncrumpling the yellow piece of paper he just pulled from out of his pocket. “I can’t even read this,” he says, tilting his head.

Stiles' phone is dead; he tucks it into his back pocket and goes over to look at what Mr. Stubble is holding. It’s a carbon copy of their marriage license, a thin piece of paper that looks more like a cheap receipt than anything else.

Stiles feels nauseous all over again. “So we’re really married, huh?” He says, voice tight.

Mr. Stubble frowns. “I guess so. What does your signature say?”

“I like to be called Stiles,” he says, glad that his signature is just one big, illegible scribble.

Mr. Stubble squints at the license. “Your name is definitely way longer than that—”

Stiles snatches the paper from him, eyes scanning it over. “And you’re… Derk?"

Mr. Stubble’s eyebrows lower contemptfully. Stiles wonders if he was born with such expressive eyebrows. Maybe he had to train them for years, giving them treats as rewards for good behavior.

“It’s Derek,” he grumbles.

“No, this definitely says ‘Derk’.” Stiles dances away as Derek makes a reach for him. “Derk Hale. Maybe it’s a subconscious thing, like when you’re drunk you tell people you want to be called Derk because you can’t say it any other time?”

“Once we’re divorced, I’m burning that,” Derek says, like he’s trying to be menacing, but Stiles can see a smile tugging at his lips.

“Whatever you need, Derk.” Stiles folds up the license, tucking it in his back pocket. “Is my face okay? Do I look like shining example for kids everywhere?”

“We’re in Las Vegas, Stiles. Any children here have no hope.” Derek’s eyes scan over Stiles’ face. “And your face is...fine. It’s good.”

Stiles grins and scoops his keycard off the side table by the door. “Then let’s go get pancakes, my friend.”

“And coffee,” Derek groans, following Stiles out of the room.

**

When they reach the dining room, Stiles borrows Derek’s phone and calls Scott.

He picks up on the third ring. “ _Hello?”_

“Scott! Thank God. It’s Stiles. I need you to get down to the dining room as fast as you can. We need to abandon ship. I repeat, _abandon ship_. Forget about the women and the children. We need to save ourselves. The boat is sinking, and they’re running out of life rafts.”

“ _Just slow down, all right, man. What’s wrong? You looked like you were having a good time last night._ ”

“I can’t remember anything _about_ last night, Scott, but I’ve got some clues as to what happened.” He tucks himself further into the corner where he’s standing and whispers, “Like the wedding band on my finger and the marriage license in my pocket!”

“ _You got_ married?” Scott yells, and thank God— _thank God_ —that someone else is as concerned as Stiles is about the mess that has become his life. “ _I thought that only happened in movies!_ ”

“Exactly!” Stiles looks over his shoulder, sees Derek still in line at the buffet cart. “But that’s not all. He’s a guy, Scott. A musclely, bearded guy. Who was _naked_ in _my bed_ this morning.”

Scott is silent for a moment before he asks, “ _Were_ you _naked_?”

" _Yes_ , I was naked," Stiles hisses. "We were both bare as our souls in the night, Scott. Which is why we need to duck out of here as soon as fucking possible.”

“ _Stiles_ ,” Scott says, very slowly. “ _You’re not going to be happy_.”

Stiles heart sinks. “Please don’t say that.”

“ _Last night when I left you at the bar you were only on, like, your second beer, okay_?”

“And what? Where did you go?”

Scott sighs. “ _I met this awesome chick, Stiles. Her name is Allison and we stayed up all night and all we did was talk, but it was good. It was so good._ ”

“I’m happy for you, Scott, I really am. But you’re gonna have to grab her number and skedaddle your ass down here.”

“ _And you know I would totally do that for you man, but—_ ”

Stiles presses the phone closer to his ear. In the background he can hear the distant sound of a horn honking. “Scott. Where are you right now?”

“ _I couldn’t just let her go, Stiles! But she had to go back to California this morning, and she was going to take the bus! I couldn’t let her sit on some hot, smelly bus for six hours—_ ”

“You took the jeep,” Stiles squeezes his eyes tightly shut. “I got married to some guy with a twelve pack last night, and you’re driving down the highway right now.”

There's a pause. “ _A twelve pack, really_?”

“ _In my jeep_ ,” Stiles grits.

“ _I know, man. I’m sorry_.”

“So, what?” Stiles says, rubbing a hand down his face. “How the hell did you expect me to get home?”

“ _I’m coming straight back to pick you up once I drop Allison off. Don’t worry. And I know they say bros before hos, but she’s not a ho. She’s a like a perfect—_ ”

Stiles hangs up on him. He briefly considers banging his head against the wall. He wishes he at least had the satisfaction of slamming the phone down onto a receiver.

Goddamn cell phones and their portability.

**

“We have reached a code 48,” Stiles says when he walks over to Derek’s table where he is devouring a frighteningly tall stack of pancakes.

He tilts his head at Stiles, chewing thoughtfully.

Stiles tosses Derek’s cell down on the table before he pulls out a chair, falling into it. “The friend I was here with took off with my car and a girl in a wild pursuit of love.”

Derek swallows. “So we’re both stranded."

"Seems like it."

"At least have some pancakes, then.” Derek nods down at the plate.

Stiles slumps over the table and puts his head down on his arms. “I don’t like pancakes.”

Derek scoffs. “I should not have married you, then.”

“If pancakes are that big of a deciding factor to you, once we’re divorced maybe you can go and marry _them_.”

Derek keeps chewing. Stiles drops his head to the table; the wood smells like lemon disinfectant and he wants to cry a little. He’s trapped in Las Vegas with his very new, very male husband, hung over and strapped for cash. He runs through his very limited options: he can’t sit around and wait for Scott to come pick him up because he can’t afford another night in his hotel room, and he also can’t leave the city because he doesn’t have a car. He considers calling his dad, only to scrap that idea. Immediately.

It’s easy to see why people become prostitutes.

“I’m going to sell my body to the night,” Stiles mumbles.

“I won’t share you with another boy, Stiles,” Derek says with way more conviction than any person should when quoting a song by _The Police_ with a mouth full of pancakes.

“Jesus, what’s happening?” Stiles throws out an arm and his hand hits the edge of Derek’s plate, rattling it. “Do not answer that.”

Stiles lifts his head and watches Derek sip his coffee, before swallowing to ask, “Where do you live?”

“Beacon Hills. It’s in northern California, close to Oregon.”

Derek looks surprised. “I know where that is,” he says. “I grew up there.”

Stiles shakes his head. This day couldn’t get any weirder, could it? He’s getting closer and closer to belting out It’s a Small World and hitching a ride on the first boat he spots, creepy children or not.

“But you moved?” Stiles asks.

Derek nods. “A couple years ago. To Sacramento.”

“Well, that’s all fine and dandy,” Stiles says, his voice stupidly small, “but I spent all my cash gambling like a drunk idiot last night, and I don’t have enough money in my bank account to afford a pack of ramen right now, so I’m screwed.”

Derek stares very carefully at Stiles. After a moment, he says, “Well, I’ve got a credit card.”

Stiles huffs out a laugh, looking away from Derek’s stupidly symmetrical face. There’s a guy at the table next to them wearing a button-up pineapple shirt. He looks lonely. Stiles hates his life. “At least you can pay your way out of here, then.”

“I could. But I was thinking—I could rent a car. We could drive back together.”

Stiles snaps his head forward so quickly he probably gives himself whiplash. He squints at Derek. It doesn't look like he's joking. “Are you serious, man? You'd do that for me?”

The corner of Derek’s mouth twitches. "I feel like it’s within the bounds of my husbandly duty.”

Stiles glares as Derek smirks.

**

Stiles throws his duffel bag into the trunk of their new rental Volvo, next to Derek’s suitcases, slamming the lid shut and leaning against the bumper. He watches Derek talk with the doorman of the hotel, gesturing enthusiastically about who knows what.

Stiles can suddenly feel the marriage license tucked away in his back pocket like it’s gone and grown into a fifty pound weight. He isn’t exactly sure how annulments work, but he figures they can’t be too complicated, right? The only thing he and Derek will need to split ownership of is one horrific sense of embarrassment. As long as Stiles’ dad never hears a word about it, there’s really nothing he needs to worry about.

He fiddles with the ring on his finger, tugging it off and slipping it into his pocket when Derek begins walking over.

“You ready?” he asks, circling the car to the driver’s side door.

“Let’s make this baby purr.” Stiles taps the roof of the car before slipping into the passenger seat. “It took me and Scott almost half a day to get down here. We can each do a couple shifts, for as long as we can drive before we start to think about swerving into traffic.”

“I’m always thinking about swerving into traffic,” Derek says, slipping on a flashy pair of aviators. Stiles can’t decide if Derek is really kidding. Stiles tugs on his seatbelt to make sure it’s locked. Just in case.

As the car begins to slowly make its way down the road, Stiles studies Derek’s profile. Derek, his husband, with a chiseled jaw and impressive layer of stubble. Objectively, Stiles knows Derek is attractive. Anyone with eyes could see that. Hell, someone _without_ eyes could probably feel Derek’s attractiveness radiating onto them.

But there’s a difference between knowing someone is attractive and being attracted to them, right? Stiles thought he knew how to separate the two. There are men, most of which Stiles has not taken the time to appreciate the varied features of, and then there are girls, with their soft faces and gentle curves and nice laughs. But his drunk-self seemed to think otherwise. Could he be attracted to Derek? What would it be like to walk hand-in-hand, to have Derek’s stubble scratch against his neck? His biceps were so—so _bulgy_. How easy would it be for those arms to pin Stiles down? To hold him up against a wall, or—

“Stiles? You’re staring.”

Stiles blinks and shifts his gaze back out the window. “Sorry,” he says, face growing hot, embarrassed to have been caught. “Do you know where you’re going? I could pull up the GPS on your phone, if you want.”

Derek shakes his head. Stiles watches Derek’s lips move as he says, “I just need to get onto the freeway. It’s only a couple streets over.”

What would it be like to kiss a guy? Derek’s lips looked normal. Pink. Soft, maybe.

The car falls quiet in a way that makes Stiles feel uncomfortable and just a little bit twitchy. When he can’t take it anymore, he blurts, “You a silence is golden kind of guy? Need to reflect on your manpain in peace and solitude?”

“I don’t have manpain,” Derek scoffs.

“Your eyebrows beg to differ,” Stiles mumbles.

“What was that?”

“I said, do you have a favorite color?”

Derek sighs, like answering the question is painful for him. “Red,” he says.

“Favorite song?”

Derek shakes his head. “My turn. Back and forth is only fair, right?”

“Sure,” Stiles says, happy that Derek is going along with his little game. “Go for it.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-three. How old are _you_?”

“Twenty-seven," Derek says. "Are you still in school?”

“Grad school, baby. Do you have a job?”

“Yes. What school?”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “That was like, half an answer.”

“Maybe you should have been more clear on the rules.”

 _Fucker_ , Stiles thinks, and then says, “Fine, I see how it is. I go to Berkley. Where do you work?”

“I'm a firefighter." Not surprising, Stiles thinks, considering how ridiculously in shape Derek is. "What are you in graduate school for?”

“Criminal psych. I want to be a cop, you know, but I also want to do—more. Stop crime before it happens. Give people a second chance. Let me know if you feel any murderous inclinations brewing,” Stiles ribs. “Maybe we can work it out.”

“Do I look like that kind of guy to you?” Derek asks flatly, turning to face Stiles with a frown, sunglasses shielding his eyes. Stiles is unsure, yet again, if Derek is joking or not. 

Stiles shrugs. “You seem like a dark horse, if you ask me.”

Derek smirks and turns back to the road, but doesn’t reply.

“So—why firefighting?” Stiles asks, eager to poke at Derek’s hidden mysteries.

“For the danger,” he deadpans. “And the great pay.”

“Ha,” Stiles barks. “Look at that. Big guy’s got jokes. Come on, man, we’ve got like, similar lines of work going on. Tell me why.”

Derek’s fingers untighten and retighten against the steering wheel. “It’s a way to help people," he says stiffly. "It is what it is.”

Disappointing, Stiles thinks, but lets it go, feeling a weird sort of tension rising up between them. It’s way too early for that, so he nods and stays quiet as Derek merges onto the highway. The car grows quiet again, and Stiles quickly grows sick of the tires rumbling against the asphalt. “So what is your favorite song, anyway?”

It takes Derek a while to answer, so long Stiles has resigned himself to a long drive of silence, but he eventually says, “ _Can’t Help Falling in Love_. By—” 

“—Elvis. Yeah, I know. That’s not the kind of musical taste I would peg on a guy like you.”

Derek frowns. “A guy like me?”

“Yeah, you know.” Stiles waves his hand up and down at Derek. “All grumpy, two-percent body fat, doesn’t-use-his-blinker-when-changing-lanes kind of guy.”

“I’m not grumpy,” Derek says, then abruptly jerks the car into the left hand lane, tossing Stiles against the passenger-side door.

“Yeah, you’re hilarious.” Stiles rubs at his arm, egging to knock the smirk right off Derek’s face. “Highway rollovers are hysterical.”

“So what kind of music does a _guy like me_ listen to, then?”

Stiles hums, considering. “Definitely nothing mainstream. No pop music. Definitely no boybands. Your eyebrows scream ‘repressed teenage angst,’ but you like to make calculated risks, since you were willing to get in the car with me—”

“—a mistake, obviously—”

“—a total stranger. So, drum roll, please.” Stiles claps his hands against his lap. “You, my friend, are a total Bob Dylan fanboy.”

Derek’s brow furrows. Jackpot. “That’s—right. Minus the fanboy part. But I have no idea how you figured that out.”

“This noggin’s a wild place.” Stiles taps his temple with a finger. “You don’t get far in the psych world without picking up a few things.”

Stiles watches Derek’s face grow worried and laughs quietly to himself. It’s not like Derek needs to know that Stiles skimmed through his phone after calling Scott, just to make sure Derek wasn’t a serial rapist or compulsive cat hoarder or anything weird like that.

And he did seem normal enough. He mostly had pictures of himself grouped together with a bunch of friendly looking guys—probably his co-workers, now that Stiles thinks about it—a couple of him and a brunette, maybe his sister, and a bunch of a calico cat doing silly, cat things. Stiles also went through Derek’s text messages long enough to confirm he wasn’t a loner or twisted up in any gangs or organized crime, and then went through his music until he accidently clicked the lock button and brought up the password protected homepage.

Derek also probably doesn’t need to know Stiles is _plenty_ aware of Derek’s fondness of 90’s boy bands. He has more Backstreet Boy albums in his music library than Stiles knew _existed_.

“What kind of music do you listen to?” Derek asks.

Stiles shrugs. “Whatever’s on the radio. Maroon 5. Taylor Swift. Nicki Minaj.”

Derek grunts like he’s in pain.

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Like _Starships_ doesn’t get you crazy pumped every time you listen to it? Come on."

Derek shakes his head. “I haven’t heard it.”

“I just do so much studying nowadays I don’t really have time to listen to music, you know?" Stiles explains, unsure why he feels the need to defend himself. "Contrary to popular belief, getting your doctorate is incredibly hard work."

Derek nods but doesn’t offer a response. Stiles turns on the radio to avoid another bout of silence. He doesn’t know the stations so he flicks through them, trying to find something that isn’t a commercial or some heavy electric guitar riff. He eventually settles on a classical music station.

Still feeling the lingering effects of his hangover, Stiles lets the steady vibration of the car and the lilt and fall of the instruments lull him into an easy sleep.

Stiles’ dream plants him back at the bar of the casino, an almost-empty glass of beer in front him. Scott’s hand is just slipping off his shoulder, his voice floating through the space between Stiles’ ears as he says, “I’m just gonna go talk to her” before walking away.

Stiles turns and there’s a stranger sitting on the stool next to him, nursing something bright pink with one of those toothpick umbrellas. Stiles thinks, _hello_ , and maybe he says it too, because the stranger turns and smiles, and his teeth are so bright. Stiles’ mouth goes dry like he’s just swallowed the sun.

A voice croons in his ear that sounds like the word _yes_ , wrapped up and around the steady hum of a thousand violins. Stiles stretches out his hand to agree but touches nothing, a brush of air catching his fingertips as he's tugged from his seat. The stranger scrambles after him, his face collapsing into fear, light to dark, but he’s too late. Stiles falls, the crash of dissonance swelling around him, the slam of a piano’s keys and the pounding of his heart.

A trumpet squalls the _no, no_ that’s heavy against Stiles’ lips, but it drowns in the gold of a cymbal screaming its way across the wash of white that has sucked Stiles in. He pitches forward into his abyss of sound—

—a hand grabs him tightly by the wrist, tugging him through a sudden, gaping doorway. He breaks the surface of silence and opens his mouth to speak—

Only to jolt awake on the tail end of a gasp, seatbelt catching him as he jerks forward.

Derek startles. “Woah. You all right?”

Stiles swallows, stares at the slope of Derek’s nose and the brush of his eyelashes against his cheek as he blinks, and thinks, _holy shit_. He’d really wanted Derek last night. His drunk-self had been _all over that_.

“Yeah.” Stiles clears his throat. “Just a weird dream, I guess.”

The radio is off and the clock on the dash says that Stiles has been asleep for almost an hour.

Derek hums. “Well, at least it was only that.”

“Right,” Stiles breathes, finding it impossible, yet again, to look away from Derek’s face, the overwhelming feeling of _want_ from the dream still fluttering low in his stomach. “So you really don’t remember anything from last night? At the bar? Or after?”

Derek shakes his head. “I know when I got to the bar, you were by yourself. I said hello and we talked for a while, but I don’t remember what any of it was about. I think I was sobering up by the time we were in the hotel room, which is why I can remember your—your dance. But that’s it.” He pauses, tone going firm. “I’m sure nothing happened between us. I can promise you that.”

Stiles smiles. “I know. I believe you.” Under his breath, he mutters, “That’s not the problem.”

Derek catches the words. “What is?”

What had he found so appealing about Derek last night? What was so special about him he threw off all his clothes and tried to have _sex_ with him? A _guy._ A very masculine, manly guy. Was it just the tequila? Was he into guys? Could that happen? Just like that, after only one night?

Stiles doesn’t know where to start.

He forces a laugh instead. “I just really can’t believe I did that dance, that’s all.” He glances out the window, watching a sign whip past. “Where are we, anyway?”

“We crossed into California while you were asleep. I’d say we’re making good time.”

“Only what, ten hours to go?” Stiles says. Ten hours confined to a car with the guy he’d married while _drunk_ last night. Whose bones he may or may not want to jump. The air begins to grow hot and stifling. 

“Do you think you could pull off at the next exit?” Stiles asks, feigning a groan of pain. “I need to stretch my legs.”

“It’s only been an hour,” Derek mutters, but takes the car down the next ramp anyways.

They drive around until they find the center of whatever city they’re in and pull into the parking lot of a shopping center. Stiles kicks open his door and shakes himself out, leaning against the side of the Volvo. The fresh air makes his head feel a lot clearer. And his knees _were_ getting a little sore, as it turns out.

Stiles glances around at the strip of stores: a tattoo parlor, a pizza shop, a couple clothing boutiques, a _Starbucks_ , and an iffy-looking flea market.

“Hey,” Stiles says to Derek, leaning over the roof of the car. “You into antiquing?”

Derek’s mouth pinches. “Not really.” He glances over at the storefront. “But now that I think about it, I never got Laura a wedding present, so…” He shrugs. “Why not?”

Inside, the store is one wide, open room with countless shelves full of various odds-and-ends.

“Did you tell Laura we got hitched?” Stiles asks, looking around.

“Of course not,” Derek says, like it should be common knowledge. “She’d accuse me of trying to steal her thunder, and then once she got over that she would never, ever let it go. She’d probably carve it on my gravestone. ‘Derek Hale: drunk-married in Vegas.’”

Stiles laughs. “She sounds awesome.”

“She’s something.” Derek snorts, wandering off to disappear down one of the many aisles.

Ten minutes later, Stiles is by a CD rack, trying to pick out good road trip music from a _very_ terrible selection. He's reading the back of an _All That_ CD—because who knew this show even _had_ a soundtrack?—when Derek taps him on the shoulder.

Stiles spins around and immediately doubles over with laughter, dropping all the CDs he’s holding to the floor in a big clatter, because Derek is wearing a devil horn headband while delicately wielding the tiniest, most dainty pitchfork Stiles has ever seen.

Derek tries to go for menacing, but when Stiles’ pulls himself together, he sees Derek’s faux-angry look has transformed into a smile, big and wide and with plenty of teeth. Stiles realizes he hasn’t seen Derek smile much, if at all, hidden away behind all his sarcastic smirks and scowls. But it fits him, so well that Stiles wants to keep that happiness on Derek’s face for as long as he can. Stiles is swept with the sudden urge to reach up and cup Derek’s stubble-soft cheeks. He wants to see Derek’s eyelashes flutter just as their mouths begin to press together—

—and _wow_ , that is definitely new.

Stiles face begins to burn red hot. He leans down to pick up the CDs from the floor and sees his hands are shaking, just a little bit. He hopes Derek won’t notice.

But Derek only looks expectant when Stiles straightens back up. He asks, “What do you think?”

“I was under the impression that Laura is the more devilish character, while you are the innocent, abused angel,” Stiles says.

Derek looks thoughtful. “It’s an impersonation. But Satan was cast out of heaven by God…so I guess it works either way.”

Stiles snorts. “Because Satan was kind of a dick.”

“Don’t make me stab you with my pitchfork,” Derek growls, poking the air threateningly. Stiles holds his hands up in a show of surrender and Derek’s eyes track the CDs in his hand. “What are you getting?”

“Mm, nope,” Stiles says, taking a step back when Derek reaches for them. “It’s gonna be a surprise.”

Derek squints his eyes suspiciously. “I’m trusting you,” he finally says.

“If anyone knows road trip music, it’s me. I am the road trip music _master_. You won’t be disappointed.”  

“And if I am…?” Derek trails off, simply raising his eyebrows, which might have been more threatening if it weren’t for the red, sparkly horns atop his head.

“All right, Satan,” Stiles says, flicking one of the horns. “Go terrorize some children.”

Derek walks away, and Stiles surreptitiously slides the _All That_ CD back onto the shelf.

And then pulls it back out again two seconds later.

He’s a little curious, so what?

**

Stiles ends up finding an awesomely cheap but totally functional, totally snazzy watch for his dad, a _Front Bottoms_ vinyl Scott’s been looking to add to his collection for months, and a ten-dollar cotton candy maker that Stiles gets for himself, just because.

Happy with what he’s found, he starts searching for Derek, peering down the aisles, when he finds the best, most awesome thing _ever_ on a bottom shelf, tucked just out of sight. It’s lucky Stiles has the eyes of a tiger. He scoops it up and tucks it under his arm.

He eventually finds Derek—still wearing the headband, perfect—staring down a yellow tea set in the antiques section. Stiles treads very carefully down the aisle, weary of all the glassware around him just waiting to be broken by an errant arm or leg.

“Hey,” Stiles greets, setting down all his stuff. “You have your phone on you, right?”

“Sure.” Derek pulls it out of his back pocket.

“Pull up the camera,” Stiles instructs.

While Derek’s distracted, Stiles whips out what he found: an old-timey, wispy wedding veil. He presses it down onto his head. 

“My gift to Laura,” Stiles says when Derek looks up from his phone.

And there’s that smile again. Perfect.

Derek holds the phone up and Stiles squeezes into the frame, pressing up tight against Derek’s side.

“On three,” Derek says; just after Derek gets to two, Stiles tilts up slightly on his toes. He hears the shutter sound right as he presses a kiss to Derek’s bristly cheek.

It’s possibly the greatest picture in the history of _ever_ , Derek the perfect image of a dazed and confused Satan, his eyes a little wide, while Stiles looks like the epitome of a content bride, the veil falling gently around his face.

“You have to send that to me,” Stiles says once he’s finished laughing, wiping the tears from under his eyes.

“Definitely.” Derek pokes at his phone, looks up. “What’s your number?”

Stiles’ pauses.

For a second, it had slipped from Stiles’ mind that he and Derek had only met this morning. They were so comfortable with each other, it feel like they’d known each other for months. Technically, they were strangers, but the word sounded wrong in Stiles’ head. They were friends, at least. Friends possibly heading down some very serious roads.

Stiles rattles off his number. “Scott is going to love that. He’ll probably throw up from laughing so hard,” he says as they head to the check out.

“Don’t look at the CDs,” Stiles warns, placing down all of his things on the track of the register. Derek tugs off his headband, his hair sticking up in all directions. Stiles’ hand is half way to smoothing it out, but he drops it when Derek reaches up and does it himself.

Stiles tries not to feel too disappointed about it.

**

Stiles realizes how hungry he is after they finish shopping, his hangover quickly fading away. Derek complains that he should have eaten at the hotel, but after some thorough insisting that Stiles refuses to classify as whining, they end up at small diner down the road from the flea market named Peggy Sue’s, with red-and-white linoleum tiles and waitresses in bright, neon outfits.     

Stiles orders half the menu and sticks his tongue out at Derek when he only orders a coffee.

“Way to make me look like I’m just a big sack of lard,” Stiles grumbles.

“You’re skin and bones,” Derek says, rubbing dramatically at his arm. “I think I have a bruise from where you elbowed me earlier.”

 Stiles lifts his chin. “I prefer the term _lithe_ , actually.”

“We’ll have to pick you a dictionary on the way home,” Derek snorts.

“I’ll have you know,” Stiles gestures up and down at himself, “this body is a wonderland of suppleness and grace.”

Derek’s eyes trail down Stiles in response, in a way that makes his ears go hot. When Derek’s gaze flicks back up to meet Stiles’, he says, “I’m suddenly seeing John Mayer in a whole new light.”

Stiles licks his lips. “I—”

He’s interrupted by their waitress bringing over their drinks. Stiles rips the paper off his straw, dropping it into his apple juice, while Derek wraps his hands around his coffee mug, inhaling with a small smile on his face that prompts Stiles to smile, too.

“You what?” Derek asks, restarting their conversation.

“You’re still wearing your ring,” Stiles says, catching a quick flash of silver on Derek’s finger.

Derek freezes, and then drops his hand beneath the table like Stiles will just forget if he can’t see it. Not happening. “You’re not?”

“No.” Stiles frowns, tilting his head at Derek, who is clearly nervous but trying to hide it. “What do you think this is?”

Derek’s throat bobs. “What do you want it to be?”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “You can’t answer a question with a question.”

“What _this_ is—” Derek gestures between them “—depends on what _you_ want.”

“I don’t want to be married to some guy I just met!” Stiles says, knowing he’s getting too defensive too fast. But he’s not sure _what_ he wants. It makes him edgy to have to really think about it, and even more uncomfortable to have to explain it to Derek, the guy he might want everything with.

“There.” Derek takes a sip of coffee, averting his eyes. “That was easy enough.”

Stiles stares hard at Derek’s face, sees the barely hidden disappointment there. “Do you _want_ to be married? To _me_?”

Derek doesn’t reply.

“We don’t even know each other!” Stiles sputters, taking Derek’s silence to mean yes. “And I’m straight!” Or he thought he was, up until this morning. But he couldn’t be… something else, could he? He and Derek had only met this morning. And if he wasn’t straight, what would that mean for them? Where could they go from here?

“You’re not enjoying this?” Derek asks. “At all?”

“It’s not that easy.” Stiles throws his arms out. “I can’t just suddenly wake up and think ‘oh, I want to stick a dick in my mouth today,’ and have that be that.”

He’s not ready to acknowledge that his words are almost the exact opposite of what happened this morning. Does he want Derek’s dick in his mouth? Christ. That’s—a lot. Too much to think about. He shakes his head to quickly rattle that thought away.

Derek’s mouth twists like he’s just tasted something bitter, angering Stiles, who is really just trying to learn a thing or two here without being judged for it. “That’s what you think being gay is?”

“Well—” Stiles shrugs. “That’s a big part of it, isn’t it?”

“I’m sure your first thought when you meet a girl isn’t how quickly you’re going to put your mouth on her,” Derek says, just as the waitress rattles several plates down onto their table. Derek startles, a flush rising high in his cheeks.

“Enjoy,” she says, a bit too sardonic for Stiles’ taste, and walks away.

Derek leans in across the table, voice lower. “It’s not all physical. There’s the emotional connection. Good conversation. Having fun doing mundane things. The typical parts of a relationship.”

Stiles squints. “This is fun for you? Bickering?”

Derek leans back and shrugs, eyes darting back down to his coffee.

“God,” Stiles croaks. “This is like— _foreplay_ for you, isn’t it?”

“Fine,” Derek says, hard, and Stiles knows he’s won; he twisted the conversation his way and now they didn’t have to talk about any of _this_ —their marriage or Stiles’ sudden change of taste or—or _dicks._ In _anyone’s_ mouth. It’s what he wanted. If only he didn’t feel so awful the defeated expression on Derek’s face.

“I’m taking the ring off.” Derek tugs it off his finger and throws it down off the table. It bounces twice and then settles, resting between them on the middle of the table. “Happy?”

“Dandy,” Stiles grits and grabs the ketchup bottle, squeezing it hard and feeling satisfied when it lets out a particularly violent farting noise.

Stiles stares down at his plate while he eats. His eggs taste bland and gross and get worse with eat bite. He can’t decide if it’s the cooking or the guilt slowly creeping over him. When he looks up to grab a square of jelly for his toast, Derek is staring down at the table with a frown.

“Look—” Stiles sighs. Derek’s eyes slowly lift. “I’m sorry, all right? You were just trying to help, and I wasn’t letting you. Maybe—maybe you’re right. Maybe I am enjoying this more than I expected. And maybe it’s freaking me out.” He falls back against the booth. “Like, a lot.”  

Derek presses his lips together, considering. After a long pause, he says, “When I first thought I was gay, I was thirteen. But I grew up with Laura, who was always bringing her boyfriends home, and Cora had pictures of boybands plastered all over her bedroom wall. And my parents, they—they really love each other. I didn’t want to be different. I wanted to be like them.” He looks down at his coffee. “I forced myself to date girls for years, until things went south. Really south. That’s when I realized I was making myself unhappy and it wasn’t worth it. Things were a lot better once I came out.”

Derek lowers his coffee mug to the table. “Look, all I’m saying is you don’t have to force yourself into any sort of box. Gay or straight or bi. Whatever.” He shakes his head. “Just let yourself be happy.”

“Wow.” Stiles blows out a long breath. “Straight out of a _Lifetime_ movie, huh?”

Derek gives Stiles’ a hard look. “See, you say we don’t know each other at all, but I know that was really your way of saying ‘thank you, Derek. I appreciate your thoughtful words and I’ll take them into consideration.’”

Stiles rolls his eyes but smiles despite himself. “Yeah, yeah. Just take your ring back.” He slides it across the table and Derek scoops it up, shoving it into his pocket.

Stiles chews his toast and considers Derek, the broad slope of his shoulders and the largeness of his hands, his face open as he looks around the diner. They might not know each other just yet, but Stiles is willing to learn a thing or two.

Stiles ears perk up. “Hey, listen,” he says, tapping a finger against the tabletop. “They’re playing Elvis. Wanna dance?”

Derek raises his eyebrows in reply.

“Come on, daddy-o.” Stiles nudges his foot against Derek’s under the table. “Let’s go for a swing.”

Derek shoves Stiles’ last plate back toward him. “Eat your tater tots.”

**

Stiles takes over the next driving shift, leading them onto greater pastures.

Which, for south eastern California, means dry and dusty desert. Flat nothingness that stretches on and on.

And _on._

It’s scarily easy to zone out. CDs shoved under the backseat somewhere, Stiles has the radio up high, on some station where people keep calling in to tell their conspiracy theories about aliens abducting their family members, but control of the car keeps falling to the back of Stiles’ mind.

“Hey, Derek?” He says, great idea suddenly blooming. He could be straight or he could be into guys—and Derek, specifically—but he’ll never find out if they both go home and never see each other again, will he?

Derek hums in response, his head resting against the passenger-side window.

“How soon do you need to be back home?”

Derek sits up straighter. “I have the week off. Why?”

“Well, I’m on break for the next two weeks, so why don’t we take our time getting home? Do some eatin’ and prayin’ and lovin’?”

Derek grunts. “That was a terrible book. She abandoned her family—”

“Dude, are you in?”

“As long as we try to stay on route, sure.”

Stiles smacks the steering wheel in excitement. “Boo-yah! This is gonna rock, man.” He flicks on his blinker and veers the car onto the exit ramp.

“We could plan a little, first,” Derek says, hanging onto the oh-shit handle like a lifeline. Please.

“We just passed a sign for a drive-in. You like movies, right?” Stiles snorts. “Of course you do, who doesn’t like movies?”

Derek shakes his head, frowning. “The only movie I’ve ever seen is _The Brave Little Toaster_. That was when I was six. It scared me so much all other movies were banned from my house.”

“Oh. Oh my God, dude. That’s awful.” Stiles pauses. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Who jokes about their childhood trauma?” Derek scoffs.

Stiles opens his mouth to apologize when Derek breaks, smiles stretching wide over his face.

“You asshole!” Stiles cries. “That is a totally sick way to mess with a person! I thought I was forcing you to relive some of your darkest, repressed memories.”

They pass a sign that reads, ‘Skyline Drive-In. Next Right’ and Stiles swings the car onto a wide, dirt road.

“ _The Brave Little Toaster_ did give me nightmares for months,” Derek says. “I refused to touch our air conditioner until I was twelve.”

“Do you also harbor an irrational fear of toast? ‘Cause that would be so totally reasonable.”

“The toaster was the good guy, Stiles,” Derek says, sounding so put-off Stiles isn’t sure how sarcastic he's being this time. “It’s called _The Brave Little Toaster_. Of course I’m not scared of toast.”

Stiles stops the car at a gated booth, where they pay the teenager manning it. As he hands Stiles the tickets, he says “Tonight’s movie is _Airplane!_ , second screen on your right.”

“Yes!” Stiles yells, hitting the steering wheel again.

Derek winces. “Stop doing that to the poor car.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. " _Airplane!_ is a classic, man."

"Is damaging the interior of this car 'a classic?’”

"It's a rental. Meaning not yours to deal with in a week."

"And yet, I still have to pay for it."

Stiles ignores him. “So what is your favorite movie, then?”

Derek doesn’t even have to think about it, immediately spitting out, “ _Taxi Driver_.”

“No, dude, your _real_ favorite movie. Everyone always has this go-to answer that's some universally liked movie they use because they know they won’t be judged, when in really their favorite movie is something totally embarrassing that they’ll never admit to.”

“But _Taxi Driver_ really is my favorite movie.”

“Come on!" Stiles insists. "You can trust me. Who am I gonna tell?”

“Fine,” Derek says, blowing a hard breath out of his nose. “It’s _Ghost._ Laura made me watch it all the time, but—”

Stiles feels his heart grows three times bigger. “But you were totally into it! That’s like, insanely cute, dude. I bet you’re a really awesome big brother.”

Derek shakes his head and says, “Little brother. Laura’s three years older than me.”

They finally reach the closest row clear of cars in the large, grassy field. They’re early to the movie, so they’ve got a parking spot nice and close to the screen.

“Are you the youngest in your family, then?” Stiles asks as he shuts the car off. “How old are your other siblings?”

“Laura is the oldest and I was born after her, but my other sister and my brothers are all younger.”

“Wow.” Stiles whistles. “Big family. How’s that middle child syndrome feelin’?”

“It’s a little concerning you’re a therapist and you subscribe to those kind of stereotypes.”

“And there’s that aggression just bubbling out,” Stiles teases.

Derek rolls his eyes and changes the subject. “What’s _your_ favorite movie?”

“ _Fight Club_ , obviously.”

“Really? _That’s_ what you’re going to give me?" He crosses his arms over his chest. "After your whole spiel about honesty and trust?”

“Duh,” Stiles says, glancing out the window. “Hey, look, I think we can buy snacks at the top of the hill. Come on.”

He throws open his door and takes off.

It’s when Derek is handing over a twenty to the girl running the snack shack that Stiles realizes how much money Derek has been putting into their little excursion.

“You know I’m going to pay you back for everything, right?” Stiles says as they’re walking back to the car, hugging a massive tub of popcorn and a cup of orange soda to his chest. “Even the wedding rings.”

Derek shrugs, shaking a Milk Dud—yeah, _gross_ —out of the box into his hand. “I have a lot of money. I can spare some.”

“You’re a firefighter man. That’s totally awesome and super noble, but I know it’s not a career that brings in the dough.”

“I inherited some. Enough to drop a twenty on some snacks. It’s fine.” Derek smiles at Stiles, but it’s thin-lipped and looks uncomfortable. Maybe he has a Milk Dud stuck in his teeth. Maybe he's lying and really hates spending his money on other people.

“We’ll talk about it later,” Stiles says and Derek nods, looking relieved, but Stiles is serious about this. The rental car was probably expensive as hell. Not to mention all the gas going into it. There’s no way Stiles is going to let anyone throw away hundreds of dollars on him. Even if they are suspiciously wealthy—or believe that it’s their fake husbandly duty. It’s just not happening.

But Stiles knows now is not the time to force it; ruining anyone’s enjoyment of _Airplane!_ would be nothing less than a huge, unrepentable sin, and Derek’s already coined the role of Satan.

Stiles is glad he didn't push the issue when a half hour later he and Derek are sitting in the open back of the Volvo, legs swinging over the bumper and the movie blaring loud from the radio behind them. Wrapped in a plaid flannel blanket Derek pulled from one of his suitcases, it's the most comfortable Stiles has been in as long as he can remember.

The sky is a dusty gray above their heads and Derek is sitting warm by his side, only inches away. Stiles watches the light of the movie dance shadowed rainbows across his face. When he tilts his head back and laughs, eyes crinkling up in the corners, a feeling starts to swell up in Stiles’ chest that he can’t quite place. He’s content and he’s _happy_ , really, genuinely happy here, on the dusty border of California with Derek, who is very much a stranger but still a little perfect all the same.

Stiles feels ridiculous to think such a thing so soon, but he bridges the gap between them anyways, taking hold of Derek’s hand. He freezes, but after a moment he twines their fingers together. They stay that way even when Stiles' hand eventually goes numb, then his wrist, past the last frame of the movie as it flickers and sputters out on the screen standing wide and tall before them.

**

Stiles is not freaking out.

He’s just sitting on the edge of the double bed in the little motel room he and Derek rented, head in his hands.

Not freaking out.

But what the fuck _is_ he doing?

Stiles can Derek cutting off the water in the bathroom behind the wall. Derek, who _likes_ Stiles, who smiled the entire drive to the motel just because Stiles held his hand. Derek, with that stupidly smooth hollow in his neck that Stiles wants to press his mouth to. Derek and the gentle slope of his nose and a forehead that wrinkles up when he smiles. Derek, with so many parts that Stiles wants to touch and touch and touch.

Stiles takes a deep breath and thinks about their conversation in the diner. He thinks about Derek’s smile and about boxes. Convention and fluidity. He can be fluid. He’s made of like, sixty percent water, right?

His forehead feels too hot. Maybe he’s running a fever.

Derek comes out of the bathroom, scrubbing a towel through his hair. “That water pressure is awful,” he says, and then pauses. “Stiles?”

Stiles looks up, looks at Derek with his wet hair and _God_ , he’s wearing a pair of flannel pajama pants and a threadbare _Rolling Stones_ t-shirt that hides nothing.

“I think I’m freaking out,” Stiles groans.

Derek drops the towel to his side. “Do you want to rent another room? Or I can ask for a cot—”

Stiles drops his head back into his hands, muttering into his palms, "No—it’s not—it’s not you. It’s me.”

There’s a pause. “Stiles, are you breaking up with me?”

Stiles chokes out a small laugh, lifting his head to see Derek smiling, careful. “Come on, man—we’re married. I’m in this for life, remember?”

Derek moves to sit next to Stiles on the bed, his weight dipping down the mattress. The length of their thighs press warmly together. Derek clears his throat. “Do you want to, you know—talk about it?”

Stiles snorts. “I would, if you didn’t make it sound like I’m about to put your dog down.”

Derek stares down at his lap where his hands are tangled together. “I know I’m not good at this. But I want to listen to what you have to say, Stiles. Without the sarcasm, just this once.”

Stiles knows if they don’t talk now, things will probably be weird until they get home, and he doesn’t want whatever this is to end up ruined. Because there’s definitely something tangled up in the space between them. Possibly something that could end up being incredible.  

But it almost feels wrong to be sitting side by side, only able to stare around the room at the ugly floor lamp and the old-school television on the bureau.

“Without the sarcasm, all right,” Stiles says, rubbing his sweaty palms on his thighs. “We should try lying down.” Derek nods. “I just need to get out of my jeans.”

In the bathroom, Stiles changes into his pajama pants (they’ve got Oscar the Grouch all over them, which is totally awesome, he knows, perfect for late night heart to hearts) and stares at himself in mirror. He pokes at his cheeks, which are slightly flushed. He doesn’t look any different. He’s good. He’s okay.

When he comes back out, Derek is standing by the far side of the bed, sheets folded down. “I don’t know how you want to do this,” he says, waving at the bed.

Stiles throws his arms up, letting his hands slap down on his thighs. “Big spoon or little spoon?”

Derek stares down at the bed, flicks his eyes back up to Stiles, says, “Little.”

It takes them a couple minutes to get comfortable, figuring out the right way to slot their legs together, where to put their hands. Derek ends up curled into the curve of Stiles’ body, his head resting on Stiles’ arm, Stiles’ other hand lightly pressed against Derek’s hip.

Stiles hooks his chin over Derek’s shoulder and ends up squinting at the lamp on the nightstand.

“Shut off the light,” he says. Derek does, and the room goes almost completely dark, aglow only in the neon blue light shining dim through the shutters on the window. The outline of Derek’s body becomes a shadow, soft and blurry.

“I like you,” Stiles starts, quiet in that way voices go in the dark.

Stiles can’t see Derek’s face, but he hears the smile in his voice when he says, “Like, like me, or _like_ me like me?”

“You’re such an asshole," Stiles laughs into Derek’s shoulder blade. “Who said we weren’t allowed to be sarcastic?”

“ _I_ can be as sarcastic as I want.” Derek places his hand over the one Stiles has against his hip. “Okay," he says, growing serious. "You know I like you too, Stiles.”

Stiles swallows. Here it goes. “But you know I’ve never had feelings for a guy before. And I’m worried I’m making this all up in my head, or something. I don’t want to wake up tomorrow and realize I can’t reciprocate your feelings.” Stiles sighs. “I don’t want to let you down.”

Derek tenses up, turns his head as far as he can before saying, "This isn’t working. Can I turn over?”

“Sure.”

They shift around the bed, eventually lying face to face, no longer touching, knees curved towards each other like question marks. Stiles can’t see Derek’s eyes but he can feel them as they fall heavy against him face.

“I would understand,” Derek says. “If the way you feel changes. It wouldn’t be your fault if you had to end things.”

“That’s not the point,” Stiles says, frustrated that Derek is so willing to disregard himself.

Derek reaches out and twines his fingers together with Stiles’, resting their hands in the space between them on the bed. “Don’t overthink it. Just try to let everything go. What do you want? Right now?”

Stiles snorts, face a little hot. “I think you’re turning into my gay guru.”

“Stiles.”

“I just want to stay like this,” Stiles murmurs. Through the static of darkness he traces his eyes over the planes of Derek’s face, the slightness of his cheekbones and the strength of his jaw. So different from all the faces Stiles has admired, but still beautiful in its own right. “I want to keep touching you. I want—”

Stiles shift forward, relishing in the quiet breath Derek exhales just before their mouths press together.

It’s short and it’s sweet, Derek’s stubble tickling Stiles’ fingertips, Derek’s right hand splayed against Stiles’ back, resting gently but still a burning touch. It’s not much different than kissing a girl. Derek’s lips are soft and full and he tastes minty, like toothpaste and mouthwash, a nice change from the usual sticky sweetness of lip gloss.

 _Not bad_ , Stiles thinks as they pull away from one another. _Not bad at all._

“Good?” Derek whispers.

“Yeah,” Stiles whispers back, leaning in again, gentle until he gets the hang of it, of kissing a guy, of kissing _Derek_. Stiles lets his mouth fall open, each kiss growing wetter and harder. Derek tugs Stiles forward until their chests press together; there’s no fullness that Stiles is accustomed to feeling against him, just firm muscle, but he doesn’t mind. Not when Derek is sighing into his mouth like this is the best thing on earth, when Derek’s hand is sweeping wide arcs up his down his back, when his beard is scraping up against Stiles' skin, leaving the best kind of sting in its wake. 

Stiles shoves his fingers through Derek’s hair, softness giving way to the strength of his back as his hand continues to travel. He rakes his nails down the thin fabric of Derek’s shirt and feels the returning groan vibrate against his mouth.

Derek shifts, lips trailing a path across Stiles’ jaw and then down to his neck, sucking hard at the tendon there, until Stiles feels hopeless to do anything but let his eyes fall shut with a rough hum, hands falling further to cup Derek’s ass and squeeze.

“Shit,” Derek pants, each breath a warm puff caught in the curve between Stiles’ neck and shoulder. “We should—”

“We should,” Stiles grunts, hardly hearing himself, letting his hips rock against Derek’s, sighing at the catch of friction— _finally_ —against his dick.

Derek shifts down against him until the bulge in his pajama pants catches against Stiles’, but it’s not enough, the want buzzing under Stiles’ skin growing louder. He brings Derek’s face back to his, aligning their mouths as best he can, losing it, biting down on Derek’s bottom lip when he grips at Stiles’ thigh, tugging it up and over his hip, and everything turns from good to totally fucking _great._

Stiles’ drops his forehead to Derek’s shoulder, ducking his head to watch them move together. “Fuck—”

Derek mouths at the top of Stiles’ ear, bites. “Stiles—” His hand drags across Stiles’ lower back and around his hip, fingers pausing at the front of his waistband. “Do you want—”

“Wait—” Stiles rasps, a sudden moment of clarity breaking through the fog of _touch_ and _warmth_ and _need._ “Wait. We should—we should not.” He pushes himself away, flopping down onto his back to catch his breath. His body feels lit up everywhere it’s been touched. He groans. “I hate myself.”

“You shouldn’t—” Derek’s voice is ragged at the edges. He clears his throat. “That was—”

“Yeah,” Stiles breathes, rubbing at his face. When he drops his hand and turns to look at Derek, he can’t help but laugh.

“What?” Derek asks, frowning.

It’s his hair, wildly fluffed on the top of his head, and his shirt, all rumpled, not to mention his eyes, half-lidded like he’s seconds from falling asleep.

“Just come here, you big dork,” Stiles says, tugging at the fabric at Derek’s shoulder. He slides over, tucking his head up against Stiles’ chest. “Quickfire: what’s my last name?”

Derek’s forehead wrinkles. “It’s—it’s—”

“—it’s a good thing we stopped, is what.” Stiles cards his fingers through the hair at the back of Derek’s neck, smiling when he feels him shiver. “And it’s Stilinkski.”

“Well then, Stiles Stilinkski,” Derek says. “Do you think you’re going to change your mind tomorrow morning?”

Stiles snorts. His dick is still obnoxiously hard; if it could talk, it would probably be screaming something akin to ‘ _fuck you_.’ But Stiles hasn’t had that much fun or felt that good just making out with someone since—high school, probably, so he can ignore it. Instead he focuses on how nice it feels to have Derek simply pressed up against him.

“I’m sure you can figure that one out on your own,” he says. 

“Good,” Derek grunts, thumb brushing back and forth against the sliver of skin between Stiles’ shirt and his pajama bottoms. Stiles smiles and closes his eyes; Derek fits against him almost perfectly, his breath soft, ribcage slowly expanding. He’s bigger than any girl Stiles has ever held, much less soft, and it’s different, but in a good way. It’s like biting into an apple and tasting an orange and being okay with it because Stiles like oranges, too. He really, really does.

“You know how sometimes you’re watching a movie and you see an actor and you know who it is, but you can’t remember their name?” Stiles says. “And it bothers you all day? And then you’re eating dinner and it just hits you? I kind of feel like that right now.”

Derek hums. “Which celebrity am I?”

“How about Leonardo DiCaprio?”

“Can’t even give me the Oscar.”

Stiles snorts but doesn’t reply, melting back into the bed. He’s almost asleep, thoughts slow and heavy, when Derek’s voice breaks the silence.

“Elvis,” he mumbles. “His song—it’s the one my parents danced to at their wedding.”

“That’s nice.” Stiles breathes. “We should go to the beach tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Derek says, and if Stiles were more awake maybe he’d have picked up on the tininess of Derek’s voice, the way it sounded like one thousand secrets all wrapped up into one. But it’s gone before Stiles can blink as Derek says, “Goodnight, Stiles.”

Stiles presses a kiss to the top of Derek’s head. “Night.”

He slips off into nothingness.


	2. Chapter 2

“ _Let’s go to the beach, beach_ ,” Stiles sings under his breath as he reverses out of their parking spot at the motel.

Having to drive is fine by him, because it provides the great opportunity of forcing Derek to answer all of his questions and ignore any asked of him under the excuse of needing to focus on not driving several tons of metal and steel off the side of the road.  

According to the GPS on his phone, which is pointing them towards the direction of Long Beach, he has about two hours and eighteen minutes to milk this time for all it’s worth.

Stiles turns onto the street and asks, “So what made you first think you were gay?”

“Like I said, I was thirteen,” Derek says absentmindedly. He’s rifling through one of the thrift store bags at his feet, the plastic rustling.

“It just sounds like a story, is all,” Stiles presses.

“I guess,” Derek murmurs, staring down at a CD in his hand. “Stiles. What the hell is this?”

“That is either the incredibly high quality musical stylings of Cascada, the cast of _All That_ , or One Direction.”

Derek blows air loudly out of his nose, sticking his hand back in the bag to pull out the receipt. He squints at it. “You made me spend _fifteen dollars_ on these?”

“And it was well worth the money, I know.”

“I trusted you, Stiles,” Derek says, like he’s about two seconds from clutching his heart and keeling over.

“You say that like there’s any possibility that the _All That_ soundtrack won’t be a masterpiece.”

Derek grumbles under his breath—Stiles might have caught the word _child_ somewhere in there—as he cracks open the case, slipping the CD into the player. He waits until the show’s theme song begins blaring out of the speakers, his face carefully blank, before saying, “you’re a brat, you know.”

Stiles grins. “A brat that you like and totally want to make out with under the bleachers during your free period.”

“Yeah,” Derek sighs.

Stiles resists the urge to preen at the fondness in Derek’s voice, glancing down at the GPS: t-minus two hours and five minutes.

“So what’s the story?” he prompts.

“About me being gay?” Derek asks. When Stiles nods, Derek leans over to turn the radio down. It takes him a moment to answer. “I was at the beach with a couple of my friends, and this group of girls walked by us. Everyone sort of stopped to stare at them, but I just…wasn’t interested, I guess. I understood _why_ they wanted to get a good look. I knew what it meant for a girl to be hot—but I didn’t _get_ it. And then one of my friends said, ‘man, I just love girls’ and I realized I didn’t. Like girls.”

Stiles hums, considering the story. “So you’ve never wanted to be with a girl?”

He tries to imagine being exclusively into guys, but it’s never an idea he’s entertained. He knows bisexuality exists but he’s never applied that to himself. Could he want other men the way he wants Derek? If he couldn’t, what did that make him? _Derek-sexual_? He snorts to himself.

“When I dated those few girls, there were moments when I thought maybe there was something there,” Derek answers. “But it wasn’t enough.”

“Have you dated a lot of guys?” Stiles thinks of all the girls he dated in college and all the stupid reasons they never worked out. For a moment he wonders how he and Derek will end, if it’ll be a fight over unwashed dishes or about some stranger at a bar, but shakes the thought from his head. It’s only been a day and a half. Are they even dating? He doesn’t know.

“Enough," Derek says. "Relationships are—hard, for me.”

“Hard?”

“It’s not—” Derek sighs. “I have trouble trusting people sometimes. That’s all.”

“How am I doing so far?” Stiles risks. “Do you feel like we’re moving too fast? Was last night okay? It’s not like that was something I was expecting. I know we only met yesterday, if—”

“Stiles,” Derek interrupts. “Last night was…I enjoyed it. I know how to make my own decisions. Sex has never been the problem.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Well, then. Good to know I’ve rubbed up against the likes of Mr. Ron Jeremey himself.”

“That’s not—that’s gross. I’m just saying, I don’t necessarily need to trust someone to have sex with them.”

“So do you not trust me, then?” Stiles pulls up to a stoplight. He swallows and looks over at Derek. “Last night was just your run-of-the-mill grind-and-cuddle?”

Derek’s face softens. “Stiles. I trust you a surprising amount, considering how long we’ve known each other.” His voice lowers. “Last night…I haven’t felt that good in a long time.”

Stiles smiles. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Derek nods.

Stiles eyes fall to Derek’s mouth. As he leans in, the car behind them honks. Loudly.

He hits the gas, jetting the car forward with a jerk. Fuck.

Derek starts laughing from the passenger seat. “Are you sure you’re okay to drive?”

The tips of Stiles’ ears go hot. “I thought husbands were supposed to be nice to each other,” he says. “Like, you buy me flowers and we go out for expensive dinners and give each other backrubs.”

“We’ve been married for a day, Stiles.”

“Already twenty-four hours of wasted time, _Derek_.”

“We’re in a car.”

“It’s all about thinking creatively.”

“I could very creatively throw myself onto the sidewalk.”

“At least you’ll be able to find me some flowers while you’re out there.”

“Now who’s not being a nice husband?”

“Still you, I think.”

Derek doesn’t respond, but when Stiles glances over, he sees that Derek is staring out the windshield with a grin on his face. Things stay quiet, a song about Good Burger playing from the speakers. Stiles thinks about what Derek said, about not trusting people. What does he know about Derek? What has Derek _let_ him know? Little, inconsequential things about the music and movies he likes. Vague stories about his family. Stiles glances over at Derek, who glances back with a close-lipped smile. Who is Derek really? Why can’t he trust people? Who has Stiles committed himself to spending the next few days trapped in a car with? Someone kind enough to rent a stranger a car and motel rooms, but someone unable to say where all that money was coming from, for one thing. 

Stiles looks down at the GPS again. They still have a little more than an hour and a half of driving until they reach the beach.

“So tell me about Sacramento,” Stiles says.  

“What about it?” Derek asks. “Have you never been?”

“Once or twice, yeah. But it’s different hearing about a place from someone who lives there. They know all the little ins and outs. Where to get the best coffee, which homeless guys to give money to, shortcuts to get to places quicker. That sort of thing.”

“I think I can do that.”

And that’s how Stiles spends the next two hours listening to Derek paint one picture after another about his life, about the stray cat that likes to sleep in his apartment’s flower box, the way the sunrise looks from the third floor of the fire station as it stains the sky red, the coffee from the cafe on 53rd street that always burns Derek’s tongue because he can never wait to drink it, the park bench behind the empty middle school where he likes to sit and think, lost to a field of wildflowers.

It’s not hard for Stiles to imagine himself by Derek’s side as he describes each place, walking along next to him, maybe catching his hand when it swings down between them. Yesterday that might’ve scared Stiles enough to send him running with a sharp twist to the gut. But now it’s easy enough to remember the night before, the press of their knees together and all the words whispered between them. It’s easy enough to think, _that’s where I should be_.

**

Because it’s a Wednesday in late March, when they get to the beach around ten o’clock it’s mostly empty, save for two people a couple hundred yards down from them.

Stiles and Derek set up camp laying down their towels and making sure the beach umbrella, a little dusty from where it was shoved in the motel closet, is secure.

It’s fairly exhausting work, especially with the sun pressing down on them. As soon as they’re finished, Derek tugs off his shirt, and Stiles is again reminded that he is edging the line of dating a guy who is made of nothing but rock hard muscle.

“You’re looking a little red,” Derek says, bending over to rifle through one of their bags.

And that is—yep. That is Derek’s butt. In swim trunks.

That is also a big, spiraling tattoo adorning the center of his back.

Stiles considers crossing himself, because he’s not sure he’s going to make it through this.  

Derek turns around, wielding the bottle of sunscreen. “You’re going to swim, right?”

“‘Course. I didn’t drive down here just to get all sweaty.”

He fiddles with the hem of his t-shirt. Last night they hadn’t made it past any above-the-clothes action. Stiles eats healthy and tries to run at least twice a week, but he sure as hell doesn’t look as good as Derek, a _firefighter,_ who is now rubbing sunscreen onto his very tan, very capable looking arms.

It’s not like Stiles only has to deal with realizing he’s into guys after twenty-three years thinking otherwise. No, that would be too easy. Now he also has to navigate his way around having feelings for a guy who is so absolutely, terrifyingly out of his league that it’s not even possible to make jokes about it.  

“Can you get my back?” Derek asks, holding out the bottle.

Stiles takes it, squirting a big blob of lotion into his hand. He’s sort of nervous, staring down all of Derek’s bare skin. This is another gap being bridged between old-him-from-two-days-ago and new-him-who-wants-to-puts-his-hands-all-over-men. It’s a change that still requires some reconciliation.

He spans his hands over Derek’s broad back, letting them slowly drag from his shoulders to the waistband of his swim shorts. Stiles’ fingertips press in deep, watching the slight catch of Derek’s skin, all smooth and soft, covered in small patches of freckles. Stiles lets his fingers trace the curious tattoo, but only once, moving away when the touch makes Derek goes still.

Stiles moves his hands up and down long enough that it’s clear this is more than him just being a helpful sunscreen buddy. When the lotion is all used up, Stiles lightly scrapes his nails down the dip of Derek’s spine until he shudders, quickly spinning around to gently grab Stiles’ wrists with one hand.

Derek’s eyes are little wild. Stiles flushes, proud of himself for working Derek up this way.

“Your turn,” Derek says.

“Shield your eyes,” Stiles jokes and tugs off his t-shirt. His eyes sort of dart everywhere; he doesn’t want to stare directly at Derek’s ridiculous chest, but he also doesn’t want to know what Derek’s face looks like, evaluating Stiles and his very average body. He ends up watching the couple down the beach, a young guy and girl slowly making their way toward the shore.

They’ve just reached the water when Derek’s hand gently touches Stiles’ chin, forcing him to meet Derek’s line of sight. His eyes are calmer but still bright, dark green with a hint of brown around the pupils.

“Stiles,” he says, tone pointed. “You are very attractive.”

Stiles rolls his eyes and shoves the sunscreen bottle into Derek’s chest, turning around to face the ocean. “Just get to it, man. I can’t wait any longer to dive in.”

Derek lightly brushes his fingertips down Stiles back, goose bumps rising in their wake.

“That might not be the most effective way to apply sunscreen,” Stiles says, his voice already going embarrassingly high and shivery.

Derek laughs, soft. “I know,” he says, stepping in closer to Stiles’ space, dropping a kiss to Stiles’ shoulder, mouth resting there for a moment. Stiles suddenly _really_ needs to get into all that nice, cool water.

Heat radiates from Derek’s body as he works, each breath washing warm against the side of Stiles’ neck. He holds in a groan rising deep from his chest; he's already so lost in this, the firmness of Derek’s hands as they travel down his arms, the light pressure of his thumbs as they tickle against Stiles’ palms with each pass. Derek’s focused touches are a stark contrast to the rushed, frantic contact in the motel room last night. 

Stiles waits with bated breath while Derek squeezes out more sunscreen. When his hands return, cupping Stiles’ shoulders, he presses up eagerly into the touch, the lotion cool against his overheated skin. This ridiculous, all consuming _want_ won’t stop growing, so overwhelming that Stiles doesn’t have any more room to feel embarrassed about how much he’s enjoying himself.

“Good?” Derek asks, voice vibrating low, right against Stiles’ ear.

“You know it is,” Stiles huffs, ducking his head as Derek’s hands sweep downwards, his nails scratching back and forth at the skin just above Stiles’ waistband. Stiles shudders, clenching his hands into fists for lack of a better way to relieve the pressure that’s been building up and up and _up_ since last night with no chances to relieve it.

Derek’s hands circle around to palm Stiles’ hips, tugging him backwards, pressing their bodies firmly together. Stiles’ nails bite into his palms because Derek is totally fucking hard under his shorts. It’s an odd sensation, having him pressed up against Stiles’ ass, but he can’t say he disagrees with it.

Derek moves away and Stiles almost goes with him, pausing mid-step when he hears the cap of the sunscreen bottle click open and closed again. Derek ducks back in, his hands coming up under Stiles’ arms and around his body. Derek’s mouth latches onto the bruise he’d made last night, teeth lightly scraping as he sucks, hard, beard rubbing rough and dry against Stiles’ skin. Stiles loses his breath to the mix of pain and pleasure it creates. 

His skin is so oversensitive, tingling all over. He tilts his head back onto Derek’s shoulder, because Derek’s hands are open and flat, his palms and calloused fingertips dragging against Stiles’ skin, from chest to stomach, stomach to chest. His face is so hot and his dick is so hard and Derek’s fingers are so close, so close—if he would slip them just a little lower—fuck what reasons he’d had last night. He wants it so much—

And that’s when Derek stops, abruptly detaching his mouth with a wet pop and a heavy breath, stepping back until he and Stiles are no longer touching.

“Dude,” Stiles croaks, twisting his fingers around the fabric of his swimsuit to stop himself from finishing the job right then and there.

“We’re on the beach, Stiles,” Derek says, sounding strained. “In public. And you’ve never—” He huffs out a loud breath. “Let’s just go swimming. Swimming is good.”  

“Other things are better,” Stiles mutters as Derek slips by him, barely brushing their arms together, wading deep into the water and then diving in like it’s his second home.

Stiles glances down briefly before he starts walking; he’s tucked into the waistband of his swim trunks and it’s working well enough, since he doesn’t look like he has a god damn tent in his pants, but that doesn’t make it any less uncomfortable. He’s also lined with sunscreen, in a way that’s no doubt going to leave a weird, streaky burn.

Worth it.

He makes his way quickly into the water, sighing when it rushes over him and cools his burning skin. He hasn’t swam in the ocean in years, not since he and Scott were kids. Stiles hadn’t realized till now how much he missed it, the taste of salt on his lips and the wash of the waves crashing against the shore, the blinding brightness of the sky and the stretch of the water on and on towards the horizon.

He catches up with Derek where the water is neck deep, swimming over to him right just as his head pops up to the surface.  

“I’m sorry,” Derek says, abrupt, a single drop of water diving off the tip of his nose.

Stiles shakes his head. “Don’t apologize. _Definitely_ don’t, seriously.”

“I just thought about last night. You wanted to get to know each other better. I don’t want to pressure you into anything.”

“Like what? Avoiding skin cancer? That’s where a little persistence should be respected, if you ask me.”

Derek is still frowning. “Stiles.”

Stiles sighs. “I was thinking about what you said earlier. About trust. It’s not that different for me, either.”

“If it’s not, you don’t have to pretend. I’m not—”

“Dude.” Stiles cuts him off. “I tried to seduce you, some total _stranger_ , while I was drunk at a bar in Vegas. If that’s not out of my realm, not a lot is, all right?” Derek still looks unsure. “If I ever feel uncomfortable, I’ll say something, all right?”

“You better.”

Stiles slaps his hand down on the water, making a small splash. “I will. Now come over here and flip me.”

Stiles loses track of time as they mess around. He’s floating on his back, recovering from an epic splash fight that he totally won, despite Derek adamantly denying it, when he realizes the sky has gone freakishly dark. Only moments later the clouds begin to unleash a torrent of cold, unrelenting rain.  

“Time to go in,” Derek shouts over loud drumming of the raindrops hitting the water.

All the things they left on the beach are soaked, including their shirts and shoes. They gather everything in a mad dash, running barefoot and shirtless up the wooden flights of stairs to the parking lot. Derek shoves everything into the back of the Volvo while Stiles throws himself into the driver’s seat and quickly starts the car, blasting the heater on high.

Derek pulls the passenger door open and scrambles into the car, every part of him dripping wet.

“God,” Stiles says, crossing his arms over his chest as he shivers. “I’m glad this isn’t my car.”

Derek stares at Stiles blankly for half a second before he bursts out laughing, droplets from his hair flying everywhere as he throws his head back. Stiles joins in, clutching at his stomach, and it isn’t long until they overwhelm the sound of the storm roaring on outside.

**

“This is a disappointment,” Stiles says. “ _We_ are a disappointment. Corporate, capitalist America preys on fools like us, Derek. The jaws of consumerism are biting down right on our heads, numbing our brains with their poison fangs, and we are hopeless to stop it. Totally hopeless. Soon we’ll be mere drooling, slobbering masses of lard, confined to our couches, reaching for that last bite of food resting on our coffee table but unable to stretch that last, pitiful inch, our demise the same in the beginning as it was in the end.”

Derek pauses, mouth halfway around the straw of his orange soda. “You are the weirdest person I have ever met,” he says. “Do you want your burger or not?”

“Of course I want my burger,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes. “I’m starving, dude.”

Derek passes Stiles his Big Mac. “Don’t call me dude.”

“How about sweetheart?” Stiles asks, unwrapping the greasy paper to reveal a god damn work of art: smushy buns, charred beef, bright yellow cheese and all.

The first bite is literal heaven; he groans, almost missing Derek’s petulant, “No.”

“You didn’t even stop to think about it.”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full. If you choke, I’ll make you give yourself the Heimlich.”

Stiles swallows. “You’re a firefighter. You’re like, obligated to help me. And more than that, you’re a firefighter who _likes_ me.”

“I’m off duty. And you have sauce on your nose.”

Stiles takes another bite. “I think I’m gonna try out a couple different pet names, see which one sticks. You might be surprised, Boo—”

“I haven’t had McDonalds in twelve years,” Derek says, loudly, staring down at the Bacon McDouble in his lap.

“—bear,” Stiles finishes, and then gasps, inhaling all the breadcrumbs that were in his mouth. “How?” He coughs out, grabbing for his soda. “What have you been doing with your life?”

 A weird, shuttered look passes over Derek’s face. Stiles starts to reach over to give him some comfort. For what, he doesn’t know, but then Derek’s face shifts, going abruptly calm, and he says, “I have a very active job. I try to avoid things that slow me down. Fast food, not exercising—”

The quick subject change catches Stiles off guard, but his mind flashes to their conversation about trust and then to all the stories about Sacramento, so he shakes it off.

“—getting drunk and marrying a stranger in Vegas?” He finishes for Derek.

Derek smirks. “Exactly. But especially the first one.” He starts to lift his burger to his mouth.

“Wait, wait!” Stiles cries, putting down his own burger and wiping his fingers on his lap. He grabs his phone from the cup holder, unplugging it from the charger. “This is a momentous occasion. Like, record-breakingly huge. You could be in history books. The man with the ultimate self-control. Moments like these need to be documented.”  

Stiles pulls up the camera and raises it to Derek’s disproving face, his eyebrows raised.

“Come on, indulge me a little bit. Do a pose. Maybe give it a little smooch. Look happy, at least.”

“I’m about to ingest food that my body will probably reject, leaving me crippled with stomach pain and severe heartburn.”

“That’s the spirit,” Stiles says, and snaps the photo just after Derek swallows the first bite, looking totally blissed out. Stiles shows him the picture. “Worth it, right?”

On his second bite, Derek just nods, resting back against the headrest.

They eat in silence after that. Stiles watches the raindrops roll their way down the windshield, the McDonalds parking lot a blur. He figures he and Derek have two days, maybe three if they really stretch it, before they reach Beacon Hills. And then Stiles’ life is back to dragging along like usual: he needs to meet with his advisor and register for next semester’s classes, and then he has to _take_ those classes, and he’s only half finished prepping for an Intro Psych class that he’s teaching at Beacon Hills State in two weeks. He hasn’t had dinner with his dad in a while, either, so they’ll need to set a date for that too, so they can drink cheap beer and talk about the latest drama at the police department and if Stiles has figured out a topic for his dissertation yet.

Normal, repetitive, tedious.

Stiles has had more fun in these last few days than he has since graduating Berkley two years ago. He feels new, like he’s shed his old skin. He can breathe again. Big, huge lungfuls of air. He’s not ready to go home, where the pressures of his life strangle him more often than not.

He looks over at Derek, who is staring out the passenger window. The bright headlights of a passing car break over his face and for a moment he looks inhuman, the slope of his nose and the curve of his chin glowing ethereal and pale, before everything sinks back into darkness. Derek turns his head; the lull of rain dances against the car and his eyes trace Stiles’ face.

“You still have sauce on your nose,” he says.  

Stiles rubs at his nose with the palm of his hand. “Better?”

Derek shakes his head before leaning over the center console, running his thumb down Stiles’ nose. Derek’s hand falls away, but the rest of him stays close. When he leans in, Stiles follows suit, feeling almost tugged forward, like there are magnets lodged in both of their chests, pulling them together.

It’s sort of a weird kiss, Stiles thinks, in a McDonalds parking lot in a rental Volvo in the middle of a rain storm, over-processed hamburger in the back of their throats. But no weirder than waking up to a stranger in your hotel bed and letting yourself dive to somewhere newer and deeper than you’ve ever been before. 

When Derek pulls back, he keeps his eyes closed for several seconds. Stiles watches as they blink open, slowly focusing on his face.

“You said you didn’t want to get too deep into this,” Derek says, the sentence sounding unfinished.

“I know.” Stiles swallows. “I wasn’t sure if I was into guys.”

Derek searches Stiles’ face. “And now you are?”

The question hangs in the air, the patter of raindrops filling the silence it brings with it.

“I don’t know,” Stiles says, the uncertainty of it all causing his voice to catch. This all feels like a dream, the longer it goes on. What if he wakes up in a day, or a week, or a _month_ , even, and realizes he made this all up in his head? He thinks back to the dark haze of the motel room, the way it felt to just lean in and kiss Derek, to let his hands and body and mind do what felt best.

“But I know I like you,” Stiles says, laughing through his nose to trying to alleviate the tension now thick between them. “I mean, were you there with me at the beach? You gave me like, the boner of all boners.”

The joke doesn’t please Derek, who continues to stare at Stiles. He squirms under the scrutiny, feels like threads of him are being unstitched with each second Derek’s eyes remain. “But what about the rest?” Derek asks. “Not just the emotional parts, the—”

“Having fun doing mundane things? Good conversation?”

Derek nods. “If you’re attracted to me but not—if that’s it—”

“It’s not,” Stiles reassures, reaching over to grab Derek’s hand. “I’m here for this. I mean, if you are.”

“I am,” Derek says, squeezing Stiles’ hand. His whole body relaxes. “A relationship. Not the pet names.”

“Not even Love Muffin?”

“I will accept Derek and boyfriend.”

“Husband?”

Derek shoots Stiles a glare, but Stiles is too busy smiling so hard his jaw almost hurts to care. “Fine. Derek Hale, boyfriend of Stiles Stilinski. Stiles Stilinski, boyfriend of Derek Hale. I can dig it.”

“Stiles Stilinski,” Derek mutters like he did last night, thoughtful. The words sound good in his mouth. “Your dad’s the sheriff, isn’t he? Of Beacon Hills?”

“Yeah, he is,” Stiles says, frowning. “Why? You looked worried.”

No one gets this way when they find out Stiles’ dad is a cop unless they’ve got some sort of beef with law enforcement. Hell, firefighters usually get along great with cops: they’re both unforgiving, exhausting emergency—service jobs, commonalities that mean a lot of respectful handshaking and back patting whenever they come in contact.   


Derek shrugs. “I just met him once or twice when I was younger.”

Again with the vague answer, Stiles thinks, feeling frustrated. Had Derek committed a crime? Something serious enough to turn Stiles off? To scare him?

“He’s a nice guy,” Derek adds. Like that helps.

“I know.” Stiles tone is possibly a bit too flat, letting his hand slip from Derek’s. He turns to face the windshield, watching the storm, which now seems a lot less romantic and more ugly. More normal.

“I’m not a criminal, Stiles,” Derek says. Stiles hears the eye roll in his voice. “Beacon Hills is a small town, of course I ran into the sheriff at some point.”

“That’s just not how it came out.” Stiles turns the keys to bring the car to life. He tries to perk up. “Where to next? Not much we can do in this rain.”

He turns to look at Derek. His serious expression drops to resignment, shoulders slumping. Something in Stiles’ stomach drops, too. He feels terrible. Could things already be going this bad? Only _minutes_ after they’d figured out where they stand with each other? If things fell apart this quick, where could they even go in the future? Would Stiles ever managed to not fuck things up with people he likes?

Stiles knocks a hand against the steering wheel. “Look, let’s just forget my dad is the sheriff, okay? It doesn’t matter.” Derek just nods, so Stiles keeps going. “It’s six o’clock, so we’ll have to find somewhere to stay in a couple of hours.” He waits for Derek to chime in, but he just nods again. “Or now, if you want?”

“I’ll see if I can find anything,” Derek finally says, taking his phone from the cup holder. Stiles watches as he holds it close to his face, the screen bathing his features in bright light. Stiles runs through their past conversation again but can’t see another direction it could have gone. If not a criminal, what other reason would someone have to be nervous around a cop? All Stiles can think is that maybe Derek smokes a lot of pot.

A firefighter who smokes pot. Stiles shakes his head. Probably not.

Stiles considers grabbing his own phone to text his dad but before he can, Derek says, “The Belching Beaver Brewery. They do tours.”

“Like, try-our-beer tours?”

Derek squints at the phone. “It says if you pay the entrance fee you can try as much as you want.”

“So it’s like Olive Garden. All you can drink beer and more beer.”  

“Sure.” Derek shrugs. “You want to try it? This isn’t when I find out you’re underage, is it?”

 _If I can’t find out things about you, you can’t find out things about me_ , Stiles resists the urge to say, like he’s some petulant child. 

“No,” Stiles says, shifting the car to reverse. “You’ll find that out later.”

**

“Is it me?”

Stiles hears the words come out, a little syrupy and slow, before he even registers them completely.

He wonders why neither of them considered the possible problems that could arise when two guys who got drunk and married each other go out drinking together before his muddled mind sweeps the thought away.

“Is it?” He asks again, and presses the hand not holding a plastic cup full of beer against Derek’s chest. His nice, hard chest. With his nice, hard abs.

“Are you really drunk right now?” Derek asks. “From beer tasting?”

“I’m not drunk,” Stiles insists. If he could pronounce the word right, he’d say he was _slightly addled_. “It tastes like pee, Derek.”

“So you tried to drink all of it?” Derek says, grabbing onto Stiles’ forearm. Like he’s about to fall over or something. Please. He’s better than that.

Stiles hates beer. In college, his main mode of drinking involved getting it down his throat as fast as he could. The plastic cup he’s currently holding is full of ‘Honey Wheat Ale.’ The little sign next to the keg said it should taste ‘smooth, with lingering tastes of honey.’ It really doesn’t. It tastes like pee.

“I tried to drink it as fast I could,” Stiles explains. It’s a tried and true method. “Ask Scott. Scott will tell you.” He pauses. “Huh. You haven’t met Scott yet.”

“I bet he’s a great guy.” Derek starts walking them forward, away from the pee. The beer. Whatever.

“Wait.” Stiles tries to stop walking. He trips when Derek keeps moving. “We’re going the wrong way.”

“We’re leaving, Stiles.”

Stiles is suddenly swept up with a wave of strange, overwhelming sadness. “It _is_ me, isn’t it?”

“You managed to get drunk off beer with almost no alcohol content, so yes, you’re the reason we’re leaving.”

Stiles shakes out of Derek’s grip. “I’m as drunk as you,” he tries, pointing at Derek. At least, in his general, bulky direction.

Derek crosses his arms. “That’s—probably incorrect.”

“What’s not incorrect? It’s not incorrect that you are keeping secrets. You’re my husband and you keep secrets.”

Derek frowns, trying to reach out for Stiles again. When he steps back, Derek says, a little sad, if Stiles is guessing it right, “I don’t want to argue with you when you’re like this, Stiles.”

“Like what? Honest?” Stiles says, raising an eyebrow. Maybe. Whatever his face does, it’s a challenge.

“It’s too soon to be crossing these kinds of lines.” Derek ducks his head. “I told you I have trouble with trusting people and you’re using that to your advantage.”  

“Fuck,” Stiles whispers, because. Because fuck. He was ruining this. He was drunk in the tasting room of a brewery in Long Island on a road trip with his new husband and he was ruining it.

“That sounds right,” Derek says, smiling just a little.

“I said that out loud?” Stiles presses his hand against his forehead. “Derek, I think I am drunk.”

Derek pulls Stiles’ hand away from his face and twists their fingers together. “At least you can’t accidently marry me.”

“At least,” Stiles says as Derek tugs him forward. He tugs back, holding his ground. “Wait. Derek. I’m fucking this up—”

“Stiles—”

“No. I’m fucking this up because—because I like you. And I always fuck things up when they’re good. I’m sorry you don’t like my dad. I promise he’s not what you think. If—if you smoke pot. Or got arrested once for peeing in public? It’s okay. I’ll still like you. You, with your beard. And the rest. You know what parts.”

“Thank you. The same goes for you.” Derek tugs at his hand again. “People are looking at us. We should go.”     

“People are always looking at me,” Stiles says, but lets himself get moved along. “I just want to make sure you understand.”

“That you attract unnecessary attention to yourself?”

Stiles ignores him. “That—that I like you so much. And I want to know that you’re okay. But I’m doing it wrong.”

They push out the door of the brewery into the parking lot. The rain has let up into a light drizzle. Stiles feel the cool air against the flush of his cheeks. He’s gone rosy red. He must really be pretty drunk. How much beer _did_ he drink?  

“I want you to be happy,” he continues, words coming out unprompted even as he feels his head clearing.

Derek pauses, hand on the handle to passenger door of the Volvo. “I am, Stiles," he says. "I’m having a good time with you.”

Stiles smiles and steps closer to Derek. “Even right now?”

“Even now,” Derek replies. He leans in to kiss Stiles on the cheek. “Now get in the car.”

**

“I know I’m still a little drunk because this mattress actually feels comfortable right now.”

“Good to know,” Derek says, heading into the bathroom.

Stiles watches the door close with a jittery feeling spreading through him. He gets up from the bed and stares around the tiny motel room, but he doesn’t see any apology material at hand. Stupid motel rooms.

He closes his eyes, and the idea comes to him. The master plan of all plans. One to melt Derek Hale's heart, so help him God.

He knocks on the bathroom door. “Derek?” He calls. “I’m going to go for a walk. To clear my head.”

He steals a twenty from Derek's wallet and rushes out of the motel room towards the convenience door down the street.

It takes him almost a half an hour before he gets back, wrestling the door open, plastic bag in hand. Derek is sitting up in bed, hair soft like he’d just finished drying it. He looks up from his book, a guide to hiking trails in California, and raises an eyebrow.

Stiles bumps the door shut with his foot, hiding the bag behind his back. “I have— _something_ for you. But it will work better as a surprise.”

“I think the _surprise_ part is a little lost on you. Did you take money from my _wallet_?”

Stiles tilts his chin up. “Those were actions performed by my drunk self and as such, I, sober Stiles, cannot be held accountable.” He drops the act. “Can you just go and hide in the car for like, five minutes?”

Derek hauls himself off the bed and towards Stiles, who shifts away from the door, keeping the shopping bag hidden behind his back. “Five minutes,” Derek says, heading outside.

Five minutes ends up being plenty of time for Stiles to set everything up. He’s surveying his work with his hands on his hips when Derek renters the room.

“Is it safe?” He asks, eyes averted to the ceiling. “I’m not about to walk in on an animal sacrifice or a baby you found in the street, am I?”

Stiles rolls his eyes, feeling really, stupidly fond. “I’m saving those for the next motel room. Come on.” Stiles guides Derek over one of the two beach chairs placed opposite one another by the TV tray.

"Stay," he directs, waving his hands in a down motion at Derek, who looks amused enough to wait this out.

Stiles goes into the bathroom and grabs the bouquet stuffed into the vase on the back of the toilet, getting water all over the carpet as he comes back out into the main room and holds them out to Derek with a flourish.

"These are for you," he says, and Derek takes them, albeit very carefully, holding the dripping stems over the table. "I realized while I was shopping I didn't know your favorite kind of flower, or if you even like flowers, but—daisies are always nice, right?"

Derek tilts his head. "Stiles—"

Stiles holds up a finger. "Wait," he says, leaning over to tug open the mini fridge. He drops a half gallon carton of Neapolitan ice cream onto the makeshift table. "I also realized I don't know your favorite ice cream flavor, but there's chocolate and vanilla and strawberry, which are all the base flavors, so you have to like at least a third, right? So those two things were a toss-up. But.” Stiles clears his throat, ready for the grand finale. “I am almost positive you would enjoy a good back rub."

He throws himself down into the second beach chair and watches Derek's eyes flicker between him, the ice cream and the flowers, until suddenly it's like a light switch has been flipped in his head, realization washing over his face.

"You're being a good husband," he says. “From our talk in the car.”

Stiles nods emphatically. “Because so far I’ve been a pretty terrible one. From now on, I’ll respect your privacy and try to remember we’ve only known each other for two days and that I need to maybe calm it down a little.”

“Thank you,” Derek says. “I’ll do the same for you. And what you said, back at the brewery? You’re not ruining this. Or us. I like you. I’m not going to give up so quickly.”

Stiles thinks of the multitude of girls who couldn’t stand him after one date and feels an embarrassing, ridiculous lump forming in his throat, caught in the sincerity of Derek’s words and the softness of his eyes. Stiles swallows against the flood of feelings threatening to pull him under, knowing that he and Derek are still good. He and Derek are perfect, together in this stuffy motel room with the confetti carpet and the warm California wind whistling past just outside the window.

“Stiles?”

Stiles blinks back to Earth. “Sorry, what?” He says, realizing he’d missed whatever Derek had just said.

The corner of Derek’s mouth twitches. “I said, do you have a spoon?”

Stiles hands him a plastic one from the box on the mini fridge. Derek grabs the ice cream and bounces on and up the bed, sitting cross legged at the center of the mattress. Stiles watches as he tugs open the cover of the carton and stabs the spoon down. "And my favorite flavor is Chunky Monkey," he says, before shoveling a huge spoonful of the chocolate flavor into his mouth.

"Of course it is," Stiles says, rolling his eyes but feeling so, so fond of Derek and his sweet tooth, the sock covered soles of his feet, the little humming noises he makes as he eats. "Mr. I-Exercise-And-Avoid-Fast-Food-Like-The-Plague."

Derek swallows, eyes tracking Stiles as he climbs up onto the bed as well, crawling his way around Derek to sit at his back.

"Ice cream is not fast food," he defends. "It's milk, and you're supposed to have two servings a day."

Stiles winds his arms around Derek's middle, fingers drumming against his stomach, muscles firm even hidden under his shirt. "How is it that you have the best abs I’ve ever seen?"

"Ever?" Derek says, mouth full.

Stiles sighs and kisses the top of Derek’s ear, giving in to the temptation to nuzzle, just a little bit. "You better hurry up, Buttercup. The Stilinski Backrub Train is leaving the station."

"You know I'm _twenty_ -seven, not seven, right?" Derek says, but he inhales one more scoop of ice cream before leaning over the edge of the bed, letting the carton and spoon drop to the floor. Stiles spreads his legs and lets Derek resettle between them, leaving enough space to slip his hand under Derek’s shirt, splaying his palm against the warm skin at the center of Derek’s back, just below the spiraling black of his tattoo. Stiles realizes he never asked about it. He wonders if it’s off limits and decides to save it for another time.

“So what is your favorite flower, anyways?” Stiles says instead.

“I don’t really have a preference.” Derek’s back lifts under Stiles’ hand as he takes a deep breath. “Sunflowers are nice.”

Stiles hums, letting his hand drag slowly back and forth.

“What about you?” Derek asks. “Backrubs? Ice Cream? Flowers?”

“I’m more of a giver than a taker.” Stiles lets his nails trail lightly up and down. He smirks when Derek shivers. “Ben and Jerry’s Peanut Butter Fudge, and—”

Deciding on a favorite flower makes him pause. His mom was big on gardening when he was a kid, he remembers. She’d lined their walkway to the front door with amaryllis, planted big bushes of lilacs by the house’s back windows, and let about twenty others flourish, scattered all over their tiny yard. Her hands were usually callused, and when she stooped down to give Stiles hugs she’d always smelled like so many different flowers the sweetness of it would make his nose hurt. She’d never been able to choose just one and neither had he.

Stiles stares at the back of Derek’s neck, the curl of his hair, feels the gentle rise and fall of Derek’s breathing and revels in it, letting the memory of his mom fall to the back of his mind.

“I’m not picky either,” Stiles says, pressing his thumb down, circling over Derek's shoulder blade. “Lilacs are nice.”

“Good to know,” Derek says, rolling his shoulder. "Keep doing that."

Stiles increases the pressure of his hand. “Apologetic, emotionally charged bouquets are crossed off the list, now, you know. You'll have to do better than that to impress me."

"For the rest of this trip or for the rest of our relationship?"

The question catches Stiles off guard. He and Derek had made things official only hours ago, and Stiles is willing to consider where they’ll be months into the future, but he’s not sure if Derek is ready to think so long-term. Which is totally fine: someone in the relationship has to be pragmatic. If it were up to Stiles there’s a chance they’d drive off into the sunset and never actually go home.

“Just for this trip,” Stiles eventually says, aiming for casual to avoid seeming too overzealous. And because he _would_ eventually like a nice bouquet of flowers.  

“We’re close to home,” Derek says, quiet. “It’s probably only gonna be another day or two.”

Stiles leans forward, letting his chin hook over Derek’s shoulder. His arm now caught at an awkward angle, he simply drums his fingers back and forth. “Better make the most of it, then. No more fighting.”

Derek turns his head and brushes his mouth lightly against Stiles’.

“Deal,” he murmurs.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: there is a brief scene involving a mildly homophobic, original character in this chapter. No slurs are used.

“Derek, I think we’re lost.”

Derek rolls his eyes. Aggressively. “We’re not lost, Stiles. I would know.”

“We’ve been going straight for like, half an hour,” Stiles says, watching the flat land blur past the window, on and on.

And _on._

“I’ve been listening to the GPS,” Derek insists.

The GPS that hasn’t made in sound in forever, Stiles thinks but doesn’t say, grabbing his phone and unlocking it. He reads the small pop-up window that says they’re out of range and disconnected from the location services.

Fucking A.

“We’re so lost,” Stiles says.

Derek’s hand squeak slightly as he tightens his grip on the wheel. “How would you even know that?”

“We should be near buildings, right? Cars. Industrialization. There’s just a serious amount of dirt.” He waves a hand at the passenger window. “There aren’t even any trees! This is how people die in Death Valley, you know. They go too far out and can’t find their way back, run out of water, and then _bam!_ Heat stroke.”

Derek blows a loud breath out through his nose. “We’re in a car with air conditioning. And we have plenty of water. Which would be helpful if we were lost. But we’re not. What does your phone say?”

“That we’re lost.”

 _“Stiles_ — _”_ Derek practically growls, as if Stiles is deliberately riling him up. Like that’s something he’d do. Come on.

“‘—turn by turn navigation is only available in these location modes: high accuracy, device only,’” Stiles quickly reads, hoping to placate Derek before he drives them both into a tree.

A muscle in Derek’s jaw jumps, but he doesn’t respond. He only presses the gas pedal harder, the Volvo revving up.

Stiles rolls his eyes. “You would be one of those guys.”

Derek frowns. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“All macho, tough guy that can’t admit when he's lost and hates asking for directions and only ends up making things way worse before finally they accept that he needs help.” Stiles’ dad, for instance—which is a comparison he should probably avoid from here on out.

“You want me to ask for directions?” Derek says, taking a hand off the wheel to gesture widely at the windshield. “I’ll just pull over and start yelling. Someone will probably hear me eventually, right?”

“If you turn around, eventually the GPS will start working again,” Stiles suggests, ignoring Derek’s sass in favor of trying to actually be helpful and get them _out_ of this predicament.

“That was miles ago. I don’t think we’d make it back.” Derek glances down at the dashboard, suddenly flipping off the air conditioning and rolling the windows down instead. It's an unusually hot day for March, and heat rushes into the car, thick and cloying.  “We’re almost out of gas.”

“Well, shit,” Stiles says, for lack of a better way to sum up their situation, which has gone from slightly inconvenient to really fucking terrible. “How far do you think it is ‘till a gas station? Or other people?”

“I have no idea,” Derek sighs, taking a hand off the wheel to wipe at his forehead, already a little shiny with sweat. “Do you have a map?”

“Why would I have a map?” Stiles pops open the glove box but finds only the manual, the registration and some papers about rental policies. He slams it shut, disappointed. “Me having a map would imply I planned to go on this road trip. Which would imply that I planned to get drunk, spend all my money gambling, and then marry you. Which would imply some seriously creepy, uncomfortable things about me.”

“You knew exactly what you were doing with your ‘Mating of the Songbirds’ dance, didn’t you?”

“It was all a ruse to lure you here. You’ve figured me out.”

“I don’t think that dance could lure anyone ten feet,” Derek snorts. “You looked like Elaine from _Seinfeld_.”

Stiles groans. “I’m glad you didn’t know me in college. I danced like that at _every single party._ I was a snapping, kicking, flailing disaster.”

“And you’re better now?”

Stiles presses a hand to his chest, feigning offense. “That’s harsh, Hot Pants. I’m seeing some apology flowers in my future.”

“I’m going to have to pick them from the side of the road if we don’t figure something out soon,” Derek says, and then blows up a cloud of dust as he suddenly jerks the car over to the right side of the road, throwing it into park. “What are we going to do?”

They sit in silence, both at a loss, only Harry Styles’ voice crooning out between them on the stereo.

“We could leave it up to fate,” Stiles finally says, digging around in his pocket. He holds up a quarter. “Flip a coin?”

Derek turns to face Stiles; his eyes are hidden by his aviators, but his forehead is wrinkled. “That wouldn’t be fate,” he argues. “That’s just simple math. Probability."

“It’ll get us somewhere, right?” Stiles shrugs.

“It’s fifty-fifty that we either keep going and run out of gas _or_ we turn around and run out of gas before the GPS goes back into range. We don’t need a coin to tell us that.”

“What do you think the probability was that all this happened the way it did?” Stiles says, gesturing between them. “Still fifty-fifty it either worked out or it didn’t. It’s sort of crazy when you think about it. But it’s going well, right?”

Stiles watches Derek’s throat bob as he swallows, thinks of all the little things that built up and led them here, of all the things that could have knocked them down and left their lives tail-spinning. Wonders at the impossibility of being together and happy, caught on some dusty back road in California, the world so wide around them.

“I think we should flip the coin,” he insists.

“If you’re sure,” Derek says, stealing the coin from Stiles’ hand. “Call it in the air.”

“Tails we go back,” Stiles says.

The quarter catches the light filtering through the windshield as it flips, and Stiles thinks about that stupid saying: flip a coin, and when it’s in the air you’ll know what side you’re really hoping for.

When Derek catches the coin, Stiles takes it back, letting it drop into the cup holder.  

“Let’s just... keep going,” he says. Derek shakes his head and starts the car. When he moves to shift gears, Stiles presses his palm against Derek’s hand. “Wait. Kiss me first.”

Derek does, and Stiles can’t help but think _fatefatefate_ the whole way through.

**

“How much water do you think can fit in your backpack?” Derek asks, hands braced against the open trunk of the Volvo.

Stiles eyes the tense line of Derek’s shoulders and says, “A lot.”

“Start filling it up, then.”

Stiles grabs the first bottle of water and throws it in. “You really think this is the best idea?” He asks, grabbing another. “What if we have to walk for miles? Should we really leave the car?”

“We haven’t seen another car in hours, Stiles. We can’t sit here until it gets dark.” Derek pushes himself away from the car to stare down the road. “I’ll lock the Volvo. It’ll be fine.”

Stiles blows out a breath. “I’m trusting your firefighter-ly instincts on this one.”

“What to do when your car runs out of gas and you’re lost on an empty street isn’t usually covered in the job training, unfortunately.”

“What is covered, then?”

Derek watches Stiles drop another water bottle into his backpack. “Survival,” he says. “We have water and a first aid kit. We stick together and we’ll be okay.”

“That’s usually what they say in a horror movie right before the guy with the chainsaw slashes them all to bits.”

Derek’s mouth thins. “That’s a very positive line of thinking, Stiles. Thank you.”

Stiles zips his very full, very heavy backpack up and slings it over his shoulder. “Just doing my part to help.”

Derek slams the trunk shut and they begin to walk, trudging along the dusty curb of the road.

“I feel like I should be apologizing,” Stiles says. “We should have checked the coin. Or just gone back.”

“It doesn’t matter now." Derek shakes his head. "It was my fault for not thinking about filling the tank at the last gas station we passed.”

“It was both our faults, then,” Stiles decides. “Look at that. What a nice bonding moment. Hold my hand, will you? I’m trying to be romantic.”

“You’re trying to be romantic, but you’re just delusional,” Derek mutters, like Stiles wouldn’t hear that. He clasps Stiles' hand in his anyways.

Stiles looks down at their hands. “So you never put your ring back on, huh?”

“That felt a little too serious for our agreement to be boyfriends, I think.” 

 _Boyfriends,_ Stiles thinks, and lights up a little at the word.

“Do you think they sold those rings in a gift shop?” He asks. “Maybe we got a buy-one-get-one deal.”

Derek tilts his head. “I should check my credit card history, now that I think about it. Then I could find the shop and see who’s letting drunk idiots get married without their consent.”

“Oh, baby,” Stiles says, raising his voice so it’s high and breathy. “Talk dirty to me.”

Derek squeezes Stiles’ hand, but then shakes his head. “It really wasn’t fair to us.”

“It should be easy to get an annulment, don’t you worry your pretty little head. The lack of consent means it’s not really a real marriage.” Stiles hitches up his backpack, beginning to take notice of the weight. “I looked it up the other day.”

Derek goes quiet. When he speaks, his voice is careful. “Are you sure you want that?”

It takes Stiles a second to be sure he heard Derek correctly. “Am I _sure?_ Of course I’m sure! I don’t want to be in a marriage if I can’t remember the wedding!” He looks at Derek, who is staring straight ahead. “Why? Do you think we should stay together? Like, _married_ -together?”

Derek shrugs, still refusing to look at Stiles. “Marriage is—very important to my family.”

“And that’s fine. But wouldn’t you rather never tell them about this and get real married another time? To—whoever.”

“We’ve never really believed in divorce. We’re very traditional.”

The picture of Derek’s family in Stiles’ head shifts from modern and trendy to a bunch of men and women in hand-sewn clothing, all buttoned up to their necks.

“Getting married in Las Vegas wasn’t traditional, right? So why not keep on keepin’ on?”

Derek sighs. “Maybe."

“What about Laura?” Stiles persists. “A shotgun wedding in Vegas must have really pissed your parents off.”

“That’s—complicated,” Derek says, suddenly tense as hell. “Let’s not talk about this right now. Are you carrying that backpack all right?”

Stiles stares long at hard at Derek’s face, flushed and nervous. Jesus Christ. This guy is a little nuts. His _husband_ is a little nuts. He lets go of Derek’s hand for the time being.

“I’m fine as of now,” Stiles says, wiping at his forehead. “Figures today of all days it would be this hot out.”

“Remember to drink the water, not just carry it,” Derek says. “Don’t pass out on me.”

“Aye aye, Capt’n.” Stiles waves his hand in a lazy salute. “So, tell me more about your family. Doesn’t have to be about the—the traditional stuff. Just, you know. Anything.”

Derek takes a deep breath. “You go first. Your dad’s the sheriff, your mom is—”

“Dead, for a while,” Stiles says, quick and hard. It had to come up at some point. He doesn’t look at Derek, whose eyes have fallen heavy onto his face. “But my dad’s awesome. I went to Berkeley to stay close by so I could check up on him.” He pauses, a thought popping up in his mind. “Hey, quickfire. It’s a little off-topic.”

Derek shrugs. “Shoot.”

“How did your parents react when you came out? You said your sisters—and I guess I assume your brothers—are straight. I’m just thinking about how my dad will react when I tell him I’m dating a guy. He can be sort-of old-fashioned, but I can’t see him being too miffed about it.”

After a moment, Derek says, “It took them a little while to come around. Like I said, we’re traditional. But they’re… supportive.”

“That’s awesome,” Stiles says, but Derek’s expression is a little flat, like he doesn’t share the joy of being accepted. Strange. “I might want you there, when I tell my dad. I’ll let you know.”

Stiles wonders if Derek will have an issue with seeing his father, but he says “sure” and that’s that.

“Your turn. I don’t even know most of your siblings’ names.”  

“There’s Laura and Cora, then Raphael and Owen. They’re twins. They’re very...close,” Derek offers. “They’re my family and I care about them.”

Stiles nods and resists the urge to press Derek to elaborate.

 _Respecting boundaries_ , he reminds himself. _Stupid, stupid boundaries._

“I don’t have any siblings,” he offers up in the wake of Derek’s succinctness. “My mom got sick pretty early on after she had me. It wasn’t so bad for a while and then—then it was really bad.”

Derek glances over at Stiles, careful, like he’s subtly checking to see if Stiles is okay. “I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault,” Stiles says, feeling the ache behind his breastbone, dull but there. Always there. “Figured if we’re dating you should find out sooner than later, right?”

Stiles doesn’t intend for the words to be double-edged, but Derek’s shoulders go very obviously stiff.

“I changed my mind,” Stiles says, dropping the conversation before it goes anymore south. “This backpack is too heavy for me.”

Derek stops walking. “That’s fine. I can take it.”

“Do you think—” Stiles looks Derek up and down. “Do you think I could have a piggyback ride, instead?”

Derek smirks. “You sure wouldn’t prefer a fireman’s carry?”

“Hardy-har,” Stiles says. He gestures for Derek to spin, placing his arms over Derek’s shoulders when he bends his knees. “Ready? Giddy up.” Stiles jumps, wrapping his calves around Derek’s waist. He doesn’t even grunt as he rises back to a standing position.

“I never thought about this,” Stiles says, hooking his chin over Derek’s shoulder as they trundle along.

“Thought about what?”

“The perks to having a boyfriend. None of the girls I dated were ever strong enough to carry me like this.”

“Glad I could do you such a service,” Derek says, tightening his grip. From the corner of his eye he sees the rise of Derek’s cheek, catching his smile.

Stiles smacks a wet kiss to the side of Derek’s face.  “You love it, you big goof.”

**

They walk for a long time. Longer than Stiles anticipated, which was about ten feet. Long enough that Derek has to let Stiles off his back to take out two of the water bottles from his backpack for them to drink as they move forward.

When they finally reach an actual place, not just the next step down a lengthy stretch of empty road, Stiles falls to the knees, kissing the ground in front of the sign for the RV Park.

Derek takes a picture and laughs to himself.

“You’re mean,” Stiles says, still relishing in the wonderfully populated ground beneath his hands. “Who is going to end up seeing that?”

Derek shrugs. “Just some people on Facebook.”

“You have a Facebook?” Stiles asks, head jerking up.

“Of course I do. I don’t live in a cave, Stiles.”

Stiles pushes himself up. “It’s the beard,” he says, patting Derek on the cheek. “Very rugged. Very mountain-man.”

“I’ll show you mountain-man,” Derek growls. The world tilts and swings in one frightening swoop as Stiles is suddenly swung off his feet and slung over Derek’s shoulder.

“This doesn’t bother me one bit,” Stiles cries, slipping his hands into Derek’s back pockets. “Not one bit.”

As Derek wanders around the RV Park, Stiles is given ample time to appreciate the view. He zones out after a while and figures it’s all the blood rushing to his head. He likes the butt in front of him. But does he like the butt because it’s Derek’s? Could it be any ol’ butt of the male variety? Is Derek really so special he’s the _only guy_ Stiles has been and will _ever_ be attracted to? Stiles feels the frustration swelling through him. He squeezes all the butt in his hands to try and relieve it.

Derek slaps him on his own ass in retaliation, like Stiles isn’t having an existential crisis down here.

“Put me down,” Stiles says. When Derek sets him upright, Stiles leans in to kiss him fiercely, giving it his all. Because fuck it. He’s with Derek now, right? If things change, he can figure it out then.

Derek pushes him back by the shoulders, their mouths separating with a smack. “Where did that come from?” Derek asks. His lips are red and wet and Stiles is just really, really into him. For _whatever_ reason that may be.

“You’re just—you. You gave me a god damn piggyback ride. I don’t know.” He throws his arms out. “Does it matter?”

A little wrinkle forms between Derek’s eyebrows. “No. Here. Drink more water.”

“I don’t have to have heat stroke to like you!”

“I hope not,” Derek says, dropping a hand to Stiles’ lower back as they begin to walk. “Otherwise we’d _really_ need to get you to a hospital.”

“Let’s just focus on rescuing our poor little Volvo from a life on the streets.”

They eventually find a small office building. When they enter, a woman is sitting behind the desk.

“Hello,” she says, but her eyes immediately fall lower than their faces, down to where they’re standing, angled close to one another. Stiles feels Derek’s hand drop from his back. She flicks her gaze back up and smiles, tight-lipped. Stiles’ suddenly feels too warm all over.

“What can I do for you?” She asks.

“We ran out of gas a couple miles down the street,” Derek explains, voice calm the way Stiles knows his wouldn’t be. “We were hoping we could get a ride to the nearest gas station.”

She nods, eyes crinkling at the corners. “I can give someone a call, if you want to wait outside.”

Outside, Stiles says, “What the hell—”

“Leave it alone,” Derek interrupts. He stares hard into Stiles’ eyes. “Okay?”

Stiles stares back and breathes. Eventually, he says, “Okay.”

They wait by the office for several minutes. After a while, a man walks over, giving them both an obvious once-over. “I’m Mike,” he greets. “You the— _boys?_ ” He asks. Stiles wonders what he’s been told.

“We are. We just need a ride to and from the gas station,” Derek says.

Stiles thinks about being in the car with this total stranger, how willing he’d felt to ride along with Derek and how _un_ willing he feels to step even one inch closer to Mike. Stiles’ heart starts beating a little faster. His dad wouldn’t like this. What would he say? Go back to the car? Keep walking until you find somewhere else?

“Come on,” Derek says, close to Stiles’ ear as he passes by him, following Mike down the path.

They ride along in Mike’s truck to the gas station, which, they’re told, isn’t too far down the road from the RV Park. 

“So, where are you boys from?” Mike asks shortly into the drive.

“Redding,” Derek says, still taking the lead. Stiles lets him talk. “We were down in Vegas for a few days for a wedding.”

Mike hums. “That’s nice, I s’ppose.”

“It was real nice,” Stiles blurts. “Very classy. No Elvises or anything. Just a man and a beautiful woman getting hitched.”

“That’s the dream,” Mike says, and leaves it at that. 

The gas station does come up quickly. When they pull in and park, Derek leaves the cab to fill up a gas can while Stiles stays put in the backseat. He watches Derek duck into the market from the little window of the truck and thinks, _please come back soon_.

“Look.” Mike makes eye contact with Stiles through the rearview mirror. His eyes are very blue. “I know all about you two. What you—get up to. I don’t like it, but the quicker you and your— _friend_ can get out of our hair, the better it’ll be for all of us. You got me?”

Stiles’ skin feels too tight. He nods jerkily. “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. You ain’t got no one to thank for being rotten the way you are.”

Stiles feels on the edge of snarling something scathing, but out of the corner of his eye he sees Derek at the gas pump and remembers how serious his words had been— _leave it alone, Stiles, leave it alone_ —his eyes hard, and he clamps his mouth shut.

Mike stays quiet and so does Stiles. It seems like ages before Derek hops back into the truck. “All set,” he says, tapping the red canister before lowering it to his feet.

Mike drives them back down the road, whipping past the RV Park so fast Stiles grips his seatbelt and wonders if he plans to stop at all. Or if he’s just going to throw them in a ditch and leave them for dead. Stiles squeezes his eyes shut, running through all the statistics he’s ever read on hate crimes until the car rolls to a stop.

“Here you are,” Mike says, throwing the truck into park on the side of the road. Derek exits and then opens the door for Stiles, waving a quick thanks to Mike as they make their way across the street. Stiles listens to the truck continuing to idle behind them as Derek flips open the gas tank.

“Derek—”

Derek doesn’t look up, turning the gas cap. “Get in the car,” he mutters, just as the door to Mike’s truck falls open and closed.

“You boys need any help?” he asks, crossing the street. Why is he crossing the street?

Stiles watches Derek’s lips twist into a strange imitation of a smile just before he turns around. “No, I think we have it all figured out.”

“Great,” Mike replies, chipper, but his face suddenly twists into something mean and hard. He steps close to Derek, leaning in until only a couple inches of space separate their faces. “Now, look here. I already told this guy here—” Mike flicks his eyes over to Stiles and then back to Derek. He doesn’t blink. “But we don’t like your kind here. You dirty up the water with all the shit you get up to.” He shoves at Derek’s shoulders, knocking him back into the Volvo with a hollow thump. “So I expect to see you gone in the next couple of minutes. Don’t think I won’t come back to beat your asses. I’ve done it before.” He pauses, breathing loud. “Capiche?”

“Completely,” Derek says, blank expression holding steady, like he’s being read a long math equation or in the middle of watching a boring commercial on TV. Stiles feels nauseous, but his eyes refuse to stray from Mike until the man and his truck are long gone.

“Stiles,” Derek is saying, insistent, like it’s not the first time he’s said it. Stiles finally blinks his sight back into focus. Derek is standing in front of him, mask stripped away, revealing the concern hidden behind it.

“Stiles, we should go,” he says. “Can you get in the car?”

Stiles knows he’s being treated like a child, like he’s about to crack, and he hates it, but he nods and gets into the Volvo anyways. His eyes flicker between watching Derek fill the gas tank and the rearview mirror, waiting to see that blue truck coming speeding back toward them. He’s just about to tell Derek to hurry the hell up when he finally gets back in the car, throwing the canister into the backseat.

“Derek—” Stiles starts, watching his hands clench and unclench against the steering wheel, but doesn’t know what to say. How to fix this. He’s not sure how positively Derek would react if Stiles slipped into therapist mode and ran through a few breathing exercises with him. He stays quiet and does them in his head until he feels less shaky.

The car is full of only Derek’s own angry breaths and the upbeat thumping of Cascada blaring out of the CD player. It’s like the music is growing louder and more annoying as each second ticks by, grating on Stiles’ nerves. He moves to shut it off when Derek throws his hand out, slamming down on the power button. 

They’re moving down at the road at a constant seventy, hugging each curve and bend with no sign of stopping. When the scene of the crime is long gone through the back window, Derek finally says, “Stiles, I’m sorry. I brought you into this—”

“You— _what_? Derek, you didn’t _bring_ me into anything!” Stiles protests, almost unable to follow the train of thought it’s so outrageous. “I _wanted_ to go on this trip with you! I wanted to get to know you better. I _want_ to be with you. It’s not your fault some homophobic asshole attacked us! Attacked _you._ ”

Derek shakes his head, looking entirely unconvinced. “If this is something you don’t want to deal with—if this changes your mind—”

“Nothing,” Stiles interrupts. “Nothing has changed.”

“This isn’t going to be a one time thing.” Derek blows a hard breath out of his nose. “You have to be careful all the time. In public. With your friends. Sometimes even in private. Do you get that?”

“I get it,” Stiles says, hard. “I know. It’s not something I’d considered, but—I don’t care.” Stiles eyes Derek, sees his breathing growing less harsh. “Is this—has this happened to you before?”

“I told you, you have to be careful.”

“God, Derek.” Stiles loses his breath, imaging Derek dealing with this shit alone. Or being _left_ _alone_ over it. “I’m so sorry. This is 2015, you’d think—you’d think people would be different.”

“There will be always be those select few,” Derek sighs, easing them off whatever creepy back road they’d been traveling down and onto an entrance ramp instead. “You get used to it.”

Stiles feels nauseous. “You shouldn’t have to!”

They merge onto the highway, passing under a sign that says they’re heading toward Fresno. “You do, Stiles. If you’re going to be—bisexual—dating me—whatever you chose to call it—you need to learn to pick your battles. We needed their help and we took it and now we’re fine.”

Stiles frowns. There’s a flush high on Derek’s cheeks and both his hands are still holding hard to the steering wheel. “Are you? Are you fine?” Stiles feels like their definitions of that word don’t quite line up.

“He barely touched me, Stiles. I run into burning buildings for a living.” Derek rolls his shoulders back. “Yes, I’m fine.”

“There’s the psychical aspect and there’s the emotional aspect, Derek,” Stiles says. “That goes with relationships _and_ assaults.”

“Assault?” Derek scoffs. “That’s dramatic.”

Stiles sighs, the exhaustion from this long day creeping up on him. He doesn’t want to fight. “Look, you’ve been driving for a long time. I think it’s time for a break. Can we stop somewhere? Anywhere? Please?”

Derek nods and brings the car onto the next exit. Stiles stares out the window and hopes the people in this town are friendlier. _A lot_ friendlier.

They find a recreational area with no RVs of any kind in sight, only a little playground and picnic benches overlooking a wide, glittering lake. Stiles steps out of the car and lifts his face to the sky, breathing in the clean air, hoping it’ll wash away the uncomfortable itch Mike’s words left behind. 

When he’s finished, he realizes Derek has come around the car, watching him with a small smile.

“It helps,” Stiles says. “You should try it.”

But Derek continues to only look at him, so Stiles says, “come on” and holds his arms out until Derek comes close enough that he can sweep him into a hug.

“This helps too,” Stiles says, running a hand down Derek’s back.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Derek murmurs, voice low, tucking his head close to Stiles’ neck.

Stiles closes his eyes and lets the warmth of Derek’s body and the even rhythm of his breath sweep comfort over him, slowly, from head to toe.

“I’m glad I’m here, too.”

**

They circle around the lake without any real reason, enjoying the stretch of their legs and the sun beating gently down on them.

Halfway around the path they find a few canoes resting in the brush, lonely oars lying in wait.

Derek quirks an eyebrow at Stiles. When he nods, they haul the little boat down into the water. They brought both oars with them but Stiles lets his drag lightly along in the water, choosing instead to admire the bulge of Derek’s biceps, the strong curve of his wrists, the calm, concentrated look on his face.  

“You’re staring,” Derek says, but it doesn’t sound like he minds all that much.

“You’re nice to look at,” Stiles counters. Derek gives a particularly hard stroke, jerking the boat. “There you go. Work it, baby.”

They reach the middle of the lake soon enough. Derek reels his oar in, placing it in the bottom of the canoe, then strips off his shirt, dropping it into his lap. He tilts his head back towards the sun, exposing the long length of his neck.

Stiles palms go sweaty around his oar.

“I can’t believe you’re into me,” he says, shaking his head. Derek shifts to look at Stiles, brow creased. “You’re just so—you know.”

Derek frowns. After a moment, he says, “get over here,” and waits for Stiles to drop his oar and awkwardly shift across the canoe without tipping the whole thing over.

“Where—” Stiles starts when he’s near enough that their legs are brushing, but before he can finish his thought Derek grabs him at the back of his thighs, boat rocking dangerously to the right as he is tugged forward until his thighs are wide around Derek’s hips, straddling him, knees resting on their now shared sheet.

Stiles swallows, reeling just a bit. “Uh—hi?”

Derek raises his eyebrows. “Hi,” he says back, brushing his hands under Stiles’ shirt, gripping his hips with warm hands. Stiles’ kneeling position leaves him several inches higher than Derek, nose lined up his temple, giving Derek the perfect opportunity to press his mouth to Stiles’ adam’s apple.

“I’m not the only one who’s nice to look at,” Derek rasps against the skin beneath his lips. Stiles feels a sudden, barely there before it’s gone again scrape of teeth against his throat. He shivers. “Stop doubting yourself.”

Stiles swallows. “If you say so.”

“I don’t think you believe me,” Derek says, a clear challenge, hands dragging down, quick, without any warning, out from under Stiles’ shirt and past the waistband of his shorts, his very bare hands suddenly cupping Stiles’ very bare skin.

Stiles squeezes his hands against Derek’s shoulders in surprise, holding himself steady. Their laps are pressed close together, allowing for no lee-way, and things are starting to get uncomfortably tight. Stiles tries to shift into a more comfortable position, but the boat proves too small and shaky, rocking precariously. 

“Derek—“

“Shh,” Derek hushes, squeezing Stiles’ ass in a way that clearly says _stay still._ Stiles rests the side of his head against Derek’s as he takes control, peppering wet, biting kisses slowly down the column of Stiles’ throat, beard following in the wake of each press of his lips with a sharp and deliberate scrape. Derek works for so long Stiles’ skin grows raw and over-sensitized, each new touch forcing a silent gasp from his chest. Derek’s hands remain a sure grip as Stiles trembles.

Stiles never imagined how _good_ it could feel to be conquered, for his skin and breath and body to be controlled only by the careful movements of a mouth.

Derek nudges Stiles’ chin up, leaving behind one last brush against the hollow of his throat. Derek pulls away, dragging his hands up.

“Jesus Christ,” Stiles grunts, slumping down to press his cheek against Derek’s shoulder.

Derek ducks close to Stiles’ ear, voice a low rumble. “I want to do this,” he whispers, “to every single part of you.”

“Jesus _Christ_.” Stiles body _throbs_ at the words, the heat behind them; he fists at the back of Derek’s shirt. He hasn’t come untouched since high school, but feels shockingly close to that edge, stomach swooping low and hot. He grunts in frustration: pressed so close to Derek it’s impossible to find even a hint of relief.

“What happened to good ol’ boning?” He mumbles. “Boning on a boat. Boat boning.”

“Is that your brain leaking from your ears?” Derek says, sounding amused as hell, like Stiles isn’t going to get him back for this sometime in the future. Once he regains full motion of his limbs, that is.

“I need a minute. All these new found feelings of attractiveness and self-worth are a little overwhelming.”

He takes his time recovering, enjoying the rise and fall of Derek’s chest, letting his fingers lightly trail up and down the bare expanse of his back.

“I meant to ask you about this,” Stiles says, fingertips circling between Derek’s shoulder blades. “This tattoo.”

Stiles feels Derek’s hands tighten against his waist. “It’s a triskelion,” he explains. “It’s a Celtic symbol. It means… progress.”

“Progress,” Stiles repeats, a little curiously.

It takes a moment for Derek to reply. “It’s important that I’m always moving forward. Toward something—better. Something…greater in life.”

“Are you unhappy with how things are?”

“No,” Derek says, shaking his head. “But think of some of the best rulers in history: Alexander the Great, Genghis Khan, Caesar. It’s not that they were _unhappy_ with what they had, but they were always gaining new land, always expanding. Because if they stagnated, they lost everything.”

“Didn’t Caesar get, you know, _stabbed_ for wanting too much?”

“In a way. But Caesar wanted tyranny and destruction. I want growth. To always be improving my life.”

“And how’s that going so far?”

“Right now,” Derek asks, tightening his grip on Stiles’ hips. “Or in general?”

Stiles trails his mouth up Derek’s neck, breathes into his ear, “How about right now?”

“It’s never been better.” 

When Stiles’ knees begin to ache, pressed against the wood of the seat, he finally lifts his head up.

“Okay?” Derek asks, brushing a hand down Stiles’ side.

Stiles braces his hands on Derek’s shoulders, leaning back. When he can properly see Derek’s face, he nods, leaning in for a brief kiss. “This is great, but I really need to get up. Things are starting to get crampy down here.”

The logistics of getting _up_ compared to getting _down_ end up being a little more complicated. Each time Stiles tries to lower a knee, the added weight dips the canoe sharply to either side. It’s even harder to focus with his giant fucking hard-on screaming ‘ _fuck you’_ at him yet again.

“Derek,” Stiles says after the fifth and failed try, lowering himself back down, briefly brushing against Derek in a way that only serves to further aggravate things. “This isn’t going to work.”

“As much as I’d like you to, you can’t straddle me forever, Stiles.”

“I know, Derek.” Stiles cups his face with both hands, pressing a long kiss to his mouth.

“Stiles—” Derek says, confused, when they break apart.

“Goodbye, Derek,” Stiles whispers.

He shoves himself up, Derek shouts, “Stiles!” and the whole boat goes over.

**

“This is punishment, isn’t it? First you give me the world’s worst boner, and now you’re making me _exercise_.”

Derek raises an eyebrow, watching Stiles’ as he struggles to catch up, sneakers squelching. They’re walking up a hill, all right? A very steep one. At a very brisk pace.

“You flipped our canoe, Stiles. On purpose. And now we’re both soaked down to our underwear. So yes, this could be considered punishment,” Derek says before easily jogging backward his next couple of steps.

“You damn firefighters,” Stiles pants, “with your power thighs and tight asses.”

“This is the beauty of nature, Stiles,” Derek says, holding his arms out to gesture at forest spread around them. The sun splits down between the leaves and radiates onto Derek, like he’s some fit, beautiful—not to mention _wet_ —god of the woods. “It’s impossible not to love it.”

Stiles trips over a root.

**

“I’m fine. It’s fine, Derek,” Stiles says as Derek continues to prod at his ankle. His hands are large and calloused and warm, and Stiles knows if he can register how nice they feel massaging his foot he’s not in any real danger. “It’s a sprain, at most. I doubt it’s even that.”

Derek scans Stiles’ face, eyes sharp, like he thinks Stiles is lying. Seemingly satisfied with whatever he finds, he scoots over, falling back onto the grass beside Stiles.

After Stiles’ latest display of clumsiness, Derek had helped him hobble over to an open clearing before going to work, assuring that Stiles’ wasn’t grievously injured. From the ground looking up, the sky is wide open and pleasantly blue.

“Look, it’s a wolf,” Stiles says, pointing up at one of the clouds.

Derek shifts closer, his body pressing long and cool against Stiles’. “Looks more like a whale to me.”

“A whale? A whale is a giant blob. Any of the clouds could be big, white whales.”

“Exactly,” Derek says, serious. “You get it.”

Stiles sighs and shakes his head. “You know, I think I’ve got you figured out. You act like a big grump, but under all your frowning and stubble you’re actually just a giant dork.”

Before he sees it coming, Derek throws himself over Stiles’ body, fingers digging mercilessly into his ribs. “A giant dork?” he asks as Stiles howls with laughter, kicking his feet into the ground. “Is that what you think?”

“You are! You _are_!” Stiles cries, trying to roll away, but Derek’s got him pinned, knees on either side of him.

“Say something nice, or I won’t stop.”

“I—” Stiles wheezes. “I tell really great jokes!” Derek’s fingers stutter slightly only to pick back up again with an even greater conviction. “That’s something nice!”

“About me, Stiles. Something nice about me,” Derek orders. “I know you can do it.”

“You’re—you’re nice!”

Derek barks out a laugh. “I’m _nice_?”

“Yes! You’re nice and you’re warm and you’re not a grump, you’re—” Derek finally relents, hands splaying wide over Stiles’ ribcage. “And you make me kind of crazy happy,” he pants, staring up at Derek’s face, which has gone soft and a little pink. “How was that?”

Derek answers by dipping his head down, kissing Stiles over and over, short and sweet until his mouth curves into a sudden smile he can’t seem to force away. He pulls back to trace his eyes over Stiles’ face, expression falling serious as he sweeps a thumb across his cheekbone. Stiles' heart begins to beat faster, loud in his ears, because Derek looks—awed. Amazed, like he can’t quite take all of Stiles in at once. Like Stiles is really something worth looking at. Stiles feels like he’s drowning, the force of Derek’s feelings sweeping up and over his head.

“I really do like you,” Stiles says, voice hushed; his words sound like a secret. And maybe they are. His feelings are overwhelming and epic and _new_ , and they’re his to keep lodged deep in his chest, to give quietly to Derek, to the only person who has ever wanted them.

Derek only nods, moving in to kiss Stiles’ again, firmer and more insistent, pressing him into the grass.

Later, lying side by side, lips tingling and hands clasped between them, Stiles asks, “What do you think this makes me?”

Derek turns his head. “ _Makes_ you?”

“Back in the car, after—you called me bisexual. Could I be? If I’ve only liked you and other girls?”

Derek shakes his head. “What I said wasn’t definitive, Stiles. You can be anything. Whatever you chose to be.”

“Superman?”

“What?”

“It’s from a movie. Forget it.” Stiles sighs. “I just…I’d feel better if I could label it. Me. If I knew someone else is like this, I’d feel…a lot more normal.”

“You are normal. Okay? You are.” Derek squeezes Stiles’ hand. “This just isn’t something you can figure out in one night.”

Stiles snorts. “Or in one road trip.”

“Right. And if, after this, you realize want to go and explore what’s out there, you should.”

“If I want to…” Stiles’ forehead wrinkles, processing the words. “Of course I don’t want to! The only person I want to ‘explore with’ is you.”

“Promise me you won’t let me hold you back.” Derek’s eye look hard into his. “I’m serious.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Fine. If for some insane, incomprehensible reason I decide to give you up, I won’t hesitate to pack my bags. But you should know—you’re probably stuck with me. I’m in this for the long haul. If you are.”

“I think you’re going to realize pretty quickly that _you’re_ stuck with _me_.”

Stiles smiles up at the sky and finds that the sun isn’t so bright, after all.

**

When Stiles’ stomach begins to rumble loud enough to rival the greatest of thunderstorms, they hike back down to the Volvo and rent out another motel room to stay in for the night. There they change out of their sodden clothes before seeking out a restaurant for dinner.

They eventually stop at The Bistro, a little place with string lights twisted up against the walls and candles flickering at the center of each table, full of hushed conversations and the smell of really, really good food.

They order a bottle of red wine, and Stiles lets his cheeks go flush and his head go fuzzy with it, listening to Derek talk about majoring in history during undergrad, his wild party days, Laura driving all the way down to his apartment from Los Angeles to give him hell when he told her he was training to become a firefighter, but how hard it’d been for him to settle until he finally stepped into the firehouse for the first time. In return, Stiles shares stories about his dad and their quiet Christmases, finding a second family in Scott and his mom, the time he’d spent when he was younger in the police station and the fear he still feels when he knows his dad is out on patrol.

Stiles orders spaghetti but steals Derek’s food from his plate. In retaliation, Derek flicks the torn up pieces of his straw wrapper at Stiles, cheering when they make their mark. They play footsie under the table and when Stiles leans across the table to swipe pasta sauce across Derek’s nose while their plates are taken away, they hold in their laughter until their waitress is gone, raucous and childish. 

They split a piece of chocolate cake and sip after-the-meal coffee. Stiles eats and talks and grins and laughs with Derek until he’s near bursting, stomach full and chest fuller with warmth, with the kind of happiness hasn’t felt since he was a child, secure with the world and the place he’s found in it. 

When it hits eight, music spills from the restaurant’s speakers, a song that’s slow and soft. An older couple leaves their table to dance at the empty center of the room and Stiles watches, chin resting on his hand, wistful.

When he turns back to Derek he realizes he was being watched. Stiles shakes his head, remembering when Elvis came on in a diner two days ago, at the start of all this. “I know you don’t like to dance. Don’t worry about.” 

“That’s not true,” Derek says, pushing away from the table. He stands and offers a hand to Stiles. “Come on.”

Stiles smiles and lets Derek lead him out to the floor. Derek slides one firm hand around Stiles’ back, opposite elbow stiffly bent as he clasps Stiles’ other hand. He takes them around in short circles with easy, well-known steps.

Stiles shakes his head, cheeks aching from the grin on his face. “You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you?”

“Me and Laura used to do this around our living room,” Derek says, not a hint of embarrassment on his face. “We taught Cora, too.”

 _I love you, I fucking_ love _you_ , Stiles thinks, diving in to kiss Derek. Derek’s formal stance falls away, shoulders relaxing. When their mouths fall apart, Stiles wraps his arms around Derek’s waist until their steps slow and they sway, back and forth, together.

**

At the motel room, under the dim light of the single lamp, Stiles undresses Derek, hands slow, each new inch of skin a revelation and his to discover.

As his lips drag across the smooth planes of Derek’s chest, down the length of his sternum and across the broadness of his shoulders, gentle against the dip of his navel and unhurried at the curve of his hip, Stiles thinks he finally understands how it felt to be Magellan, Columbus, Vespucci—to travel for years and years, to finally moor your boat and kiss the new land under your feet.

**

“ _This is the end_ ,” Stiles sings mournfully, slumping down in the passenger seat. He doesn’t want to look out the window. He doesn’t want to see how fast the world is moving by without him.

“Adele? Really, Stiles?”

“By admitting you knew what I was singing, you totally just incriminated yourself, bud. But no, not Adele. James Bond!” When Derek’s expression stays blank, Stiles says, “ _Skyfall_?”

“ _Skyfall_?” Derek says, slowly. “With the blond guy?”

Stiles’ eyes feel like they’re about to fall out of his head. “Have you never seen a James Bond movie?”

Derek shakes his head. “Action movies aren’t really my thing.”

“Oh my god.” Stiles clutches at his chest. “That is one of the most painful things ever to reach my ears.” 

“You don’t like pancakes.”

“Oh my god,” Stiles repeats. “Are you six years old?”

“This will just have to be our compromise. You don’t like pancakes, action movies are terrible and I don’t watch them.”

Stiles squints. “How about I lock you in the kitchen so you can eat nothing but pancakes for the rest of your life as a _compromise._ ”

“I know how to break my way in and out of rooms, Stiles.”

“Yeah, with an ax. You just carry one of those with you wherever you go?”

Derek raises an eyebrow. Stiles doesn’t even want to know what that means.

Stiles sighs. This is it, he thinks. The last time he and Derek will be stuck in this Volvo, sniping back and forth at each other for hours. A lump forms in his throat to think of how much he’ll miss it.  

“What’s our plan?”

“Well,” Derek starts. “We’re about five hours from Beacon Hills, and then—”

“No, no. I mean with us. How often are we going to see each other after this?”

Derek frowns, like he hadn’t really considered it. “We’ll only be three hours away from each other. I’m sure we can manage.”

“Three hours,” Stiles mutters. “After we’ve been three feet away from each other for days. I’m gonna miss having you around.”

“I’ll be around,” Derek vows. “I’ll drive up to see you, you can drive down. We can call and text. I’ll write you letters, if you want.” 

“You say that _now_ , but this isn’t _The Notebook_ , Derek. I’ve heard a lot of stories about long distance relationships and not many of them turned out that great. I mean, how often do you visit your parents? Really?”

Derek pauses. “Occasionally. But I’m not in a long distance relationship with my parents, Stiles.” He reaches over and grabs Stiles hand. “Trust me, alright? These things can work out. Cora dated a guy from South America for years before moving there to be with him.” He brushes his thumb over the back of Stiles’ hand. “Three hours or thirty hours, we can do it.”

“In this for life,” Stiles jokes, but it comes out heavier than he intended.  

“We don’t have to go back to Beacon Hills right away,” Derek says. “We can stop in Sacramento.”

“Can we go to your apartment?” Stiles asks, worry replaced by an excitement to learn more about Derek’s life, the way he decorates his bedroom, and the food he has in his fridge—the little, curious things that make him who he is.

Derek nods; Stiles, swept up, doesn’t catch the hesitancy in the gesture.

**

Derek’s apartment is—not what Stiles expected. He’d expected quaint and homey, with plants in the corners and old, worn out furniture, not—not—

“I can see why you didn’t want me to pay you back,” Stiles laughs weakly, standing in the middle of Derek’s living room—his massive, massive living room of his two-story, minimalist loft with clean, white furniture and giant, full bookshelves. The kitchen is all shiny steel and state of the art, and the bedroom…Stiles has never seen a bigger bed in his life.

Derek shrugs, hands stuffed into his pockets.

“How...is your family rich?” Stiles trails a hand against the surface of the curvy, glass coffee table. “Did you invest in some lucky stocks? Win the lottery?” 

Derek says nothing.

“Derek,” Stiles protests. “You can’t...this is crazy!” He’s surprised the words don’t echo in all the empty space all around him. “You know my dad—and not in a good way—you won’t tell me anything about your family, you have _boatloads_ of money. I don’t—”

Yesterday he thought he _loved_ Derek, but now…

“It’s not what you think,” Derek says.

Stiles jerks his head up. Derek face is impassive. He isn’t giving anything away.

“I can’t respect your boundaries on this one, Derek. I can’t let you freak out and then buy you flowers and ice cream this time. I’m a cop’s kid. I’m a _forensic psychologist._ ” He swallows. His throat is dry. “I can put some pieces together.” 

Derek blinks, and in that one, quick moment, it’s as if a million decisions have been made inside his head all at once.

“All right. I can explain this all to you.” He tilts his head towards the door. “We need to go on another drive.” 

“Where?” Stiles asks. He feels terrified—terrified of Derek, his husband and boyfriend, the man he spent three long days in a car with. The feeling sits heavy and painful at the bottom of his stomach.

“I need you to trust me, Stiles. One last time.”

It feels like diving off a cliff without knowing how deep the water is underneath, but Stiles nods.

“Okay.”

**

They drive in terrible, awful silence, CD player off and Stiles’ head heavy as he runs through every moment, every conversation since he woke up in Las Vegas with Derek Hale in his bed. He can’t pinpoint where Derek is taking him, what he could possibly be about to be shown. His mind thinks up ridiculous idea after ridiculous idea: a hidden, mafia headquarters, an underground layer, factories full of drugs…

As time passes, Stiles starts to recognize the surrounding area outside his window.

“Are you—are you taking me home? Did you change your mind?” Stiles feels panicked; he has to know what’s going on, who Derek actually is—even if it’s only to learn he’s the world’s worst judge of character.

Derek shakes his head. “We’re going back to Beacon Hills, but I’m not taking you home. Not yet.”

He doesn’t explain further, and Stiles doesn’t want to ask. Stiles watches another hour pass on the clock, each minute ticking down to him returning to his old life, alone, only with bitter, tainted memories lodged in the back of his head.

They end up in the east side of Beacon Hills, on the opposite side of the town from Stiles’ apartment. Here the houses are few and far between, thick masses of trees lining the sides of the roads.

“I don’t want this to change things,” Derek says, hands tight on the wheel, just before he turns left, bringing the car through a large gate and up a steep hill.

“We’re...is this a cemetery?” Stiles asks, just as Derek hooks another left and a large field of scattered gravestones come into sight.

“Derek,” Stiles says, feeling like the name is being punched out of him.

Derek pulls the car over to the side of the narrow road and turns the keys. He ducks his head and takes a deep breath before suddenly throwing his door open, stepping out of the car. Stiles hurries to follow, legs shaky as Derek takes them down a dirt path, quick and steady like he’s walked it a million times before.

Soon they cut to the side and begin walking into the grass, stopping in front of four gravestones organized in a neat line, a fresh tulip planted at the base of each marble arch.

Stiles traces his eyes over the engraved names— _Talia Hale, Andrew Hale, Raphael Hale, Owen Hale_ —and feels his insides collapse to dust.

“I’m so sorry,” Stiles whispers, unsure what to say, what to _do._ “Your parents...your little brothers…”

Derek’s voice is bitter. “And my uncle and aunt. They were buried together.” He scuffs his foot against the ground. “I’m not some criminal. I just inherited a lot of money when my parents died.”

Stiles lowers himself to his knees, the wetness of the dirt seeping into his jeans. He traces his fingers lightly over the engraving: _Talia Hale._ Derek’s mother.

“What happened?” Stiles asks, turning to face Derek. It looks as if a light has sputtered out somewhere deep inside of him.

“There was a fire.” Derek stares off into the graveyard. “It started in the middle of the night. Cora, Laura, and I were able to get out of the house on our own, but our parents were carrying my brothers down the stairs when they collapsed.”

“Holy shit, Derek,” Stiles breathes, taking in the words slowly, finding them hard to process. “Holy shit. I didn’t—”

“It’s a long story,” Derek continues. “The last girl I dated—her name was Kate—she was the one who set the fire. I still don’t know if she was more angry that I was gay or that she couldn’t have me.”

“That’s why—that’s why it wasn’t a big deal? When that guy from the RV Park was hassling us?” Stiles turns back to the grave, whispers to himself, “because you just get used to it.”

“I came out to my parents on the same night as the fire.” He sucks in a deep breath. “I wish I had done it earlier. If I had, I never would have dated Kate, and this never would have happened.”

Stiles shoves himself up from the ground. “Hey,” he says, gripping Derek’s shoulder. “This is one hundred percent not your fault.”

Derek shakes his head, not meeting Stiles’ eyes. “I wasn’t honest with myself or my family. That was enough.”

A million protests bubble up in the back of Stiles’ throat, but he swallows them down, betting that this is an argument Derek has probably had with himself a hundred times over. “Okay,” Stiles says quietly, pulling Derek into a hug, squeezing him so tightly his arms ache.

Derek falls into it slowly, hands carefully sliding up Stiles’ back before tightly gripping at the back of his shirt. They stay that way for a long time, gently swaying, starkly different from the way they’d danced last night, that moment of happiness and security gone dark and bleak.

Stiles can’t bear to let go, imagining all of the times Derek probably came here, alone, staring at each name, blaming himself and believing it. He feels sick to his stomach: at himself, for the real, honest fear that had struck him, for forcing Derek into this, for not putting the pieces together faster; at the idea of someone with hate so deep in their heart they would try to burn an _entire_ family; at the image of Derek, young and hopeful, finally ready to be himself, only to lose everything.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles whispers.

Derek steps back, but Stiles keeps hold of his upper arms. “I was surprised you didn’t recognize my last name, especially after I realized your dad is the sheriff. I kept waiting for you to figure it out.” 

Stiles shakes his head. “It never came into my mind. I’m not sure—maybe my dad kept me away from it. Especially if my mom had just died,” he says, trying to map out a timeline in his head. “I was a really curious kid.”

“Your dad helped me and my sisters out. We had a lot of legal issues and my uncle was hurt. It was a lot to handle for a couple of newly orphaned teenagers.” He huffs out a hollow laugh. “Laura was able to take me and Cora in after your dad pulled a couple strings. We wouldn’t have managed without him.”

“I can’t believe we met each other the way we did,” Stiles says, a little awed and very thankful for his dad. “What are the chances?”

Derek’s mouth quirks into a small smirk. “Fifty-fifty?”  

Stiles slowly smiles back.

**

Stiles drags his hand across the wall until he finds the light switch.

“It’s not much,” he says over his shoulder to Derek before flipping it up, bringing his apartment to life.

He heads to the far window first to check on his goldfish. “Still swimming up a storm, Obi,” he says to the little guy, tapping some food into his bowl. 

Stiles has always known his apartment is small, and even then he scrapes by on the rent some months, so it’s really the best he can do. It hadn’t bothered him until now, watching Derek look around at the patchy, plastered walls and the shitty couch he found at a thrift store for thirty bucks. The rest of the furniture is a mish-mash of colors and styles, anything he could find. The kitchen and the living room are one open, connected space and the windows in his bedroom look out onto a brick wall, which is definitely not the sprawling metropolis that is Sacramento. 

“Once I finish my graduate work I should be able to get something bigger,” Stiles says, rubbing at the back of his head.

Derek’s eyes flash up to his. “This isn’t...my apartment is only the way it is because of my parent’s money. You’re doing this all on your own.”

Stiles snorts. “Sometimes my dad has to chip in on the rent, but I guess so.” 

“It’s well lived-in,” Derek says, glancing at the stacks of textbooks and laptop on the coffee table. “It feels like home.”

Stiles smiles and ducks his head before heading into the kitchen. “Do you want something to drink? Some tea or water?”

“Tea,” Derek calls out, lowering himself onto the couch, dipping deep into the cushions.

Stiles fills his kettle with water from the tap and places it on the burner to boil, coming back out to the living room.

“This is so weird,” Stiles says, staring at Derek, all big and heavy on his sagging couch. “But nice.”

“What’s weird?”

“You!” Stiles waves his arms at Derek. “On my couch. Just...here. You’re a real part of my life now.” 

“You want me to be, right?” Derek asks, holding himself a bit stiffly.

Stiles drops down onto the couch next to him. “Of course I do. The whole trip just felt like a dream. I’m glad I wasn’t making it up.”

Derek smiles and reels him in by the back of the head to press their mouths together. “That feel real enough for you?”

Stiles licks his lips. “Better than.”

They kiss until the kettle screeches, startling them apart. Stiles pours the water and drops the teabags into the only two mugs he has, both a little chipped at the rims, and tries to remember that Derek _likes_ it here. That Derek likes _him_.

“You drink your coffee black so I figured you wouldn’t mind black tea,” Stiles says, handing over the drink as he sits again, cross-legged to face Derek. “I also only had Earl Gray, I’m sorry. I only have tea for when my dad visits.”

Derek nods and holds the mug close to his nose, inhaling. “I drink Earl Gray all the time.”

Stiles sighs and shakes his head, happy. “It’s like puzzle pieces are just fallin’ into place, huh?”

“This whole trip has felt like a puzzle finally coming together.” Derek sips his tea. “Not many people know about the fire or the money I have. They’re both easy things to take advantage of. But you… I wanted to tell you. I felt like it was important you knew.” He shakes his head. “I’ve never trusted someone so quickly before.”

“I don’t care about your money,” Stiles says, firm. Derek could lose his apartment tomorrow and Stiles wouldn’t bat an eye. He wants Derek to be in _his_ space, in this apartment, curled up in his bed, and cooking by his stove. It’ll be nice every once and a while to lie on some actual, comfortable furniture, but Stiles likes Derek here. He’s fitting in so well already, with his hands so gently wrapped around Stiles’ favorite mug. “And I’ll never be anything but incredibly sorry about what happened to you. That’s it.”

Derek looks down at his tea and smiles. “I believe you. Thank you.”

“There’s only one thing I’m disappointed about.”

“What’s that?” Derek asks, eyes searching Stiles’ face.

Stiles puffs out an exaggerated sigh. “We just didn’t get a chance to roll around on the huge bed of yours.”

Derek’s eyes go dark. “I bet your bed is just as good.”

His bed is definitely, absolutely not as good at Derek’s, but he tilts his chin down and stares up at Derek through his lashes. “We should find out.”

Derek slides his mug down onto the coffee table, barely giving Stiles enough time to do the same before diving in, mouth moving against Stiles’ like he’s water in the goddamn desert, cupping his jaw and pressing him back into the couch, which squeaks. In protest or encouragement, who knows.

He throws a leg up between Stiles’ thigh and _grinds_. Stiles tilts his head back and groans, the pressure shooting sparks from the soles of his feet to the top of his head. Derek sweeps his mouth across Stiles’ cheek, breath harsh and hot against his ear until he reaches his neck.

“ _Fuck—_ ” Stiles grunts, hands scrambling against Derek’s back as his teeth scrape all along Stiles’ neck, against the constellation of still-aching marks he’d left only yesterday. “You gotta get this _off_ ,” Stiles huffs, tugging up the hem of Derek’s shirt.

“You too,” Derek says, leaning back to yank his shirt away, long arms stretching high over his head, abs flexing. How could a whole body be so ridiculously beautiful?

“Hey,” Derek whispers, catching Stiles, distracted, brushing their mouths together. “You know I want to see you too.” 

They pull his shirt off together and Derek flings it elsewhere, pressing back down until their chests brush together, skin catching against skin. Palms flat, he drags his hands up Stiles’ sides, thumbing his nipples and mouthing sharp little bites against his collarbone until he squirms and hisses, grabbing at Derek’s wrists.

“Good?” Derek asks, shifting his hips down, smirking when Stiles can only nod shakily in response. Stiles keeps the rhythm steady, rocking up again Derek’s thigh until he aches just a little less, his dick appreciating the friction, pleasure racketing up his spine. He works his mouth and teeth and tongue against Derek’s neck and listens to him pant, heavy and uneven into his ear, hands squeezing at his hips until it’s frustratingly good but tapering off into a steady, frustrating throb.

“Pants,” Stiles says, slowing his movements, brain catching up with his mouth. “Take off your pants.”

Derek blows out a long breath before nodding, pushing himself off the couch. 

“Also,” Stiles says, muscles protesting as he also stands. “We should really move to the bed.”  

“Let’s go then,” Derek says, sweeping Stiles into a fireman’s carry without warning, bringing him into the bedroom and unceremoniously dropping him onto his mattress. He watches Derek as he strips, quick, jeans and underwear falling into a pool as his feet. 

Distracted, again, by all that wonderful, bare skin, Stiles hurries to follow suit, flushing red hot as Derek slowly climbs onto the bed, eyes trailing over what feels like every inch of Stiles’ skin.

“God,” Derek breathes, stretching out over Stiles’ body.

“Right back at’cha,” Stiles says, soft, brushing Derek’s hair away from his forehead.  

Derek leans down to kiss Stiles’ cheek, across the bridge of his nose and down to his chin, unhurried, each sweep of lips a careful press. Stiles holds tightly to Derek’s shoulders and breathes, feels revered, feels memorized, like he’s a work of art people fly miles and miles to see.

When Derek meets his mouth again, Stiles arches into it with a sigh, clutching at Derek’s neck, his arm, wrapping a leg around his waist.

“Please.”

“What do you want?” Derek asks, peppering hot kisses fast down the side of Stiles’ neck. “Tell me.”

“You know better than me.” Stiles cards his fingers through Derek’s hair, tugging, shivering when Derek moans. “You can decide,” he sighs.

Derek’s mouth falls to Stiles’ shoulder. “It’s not rocket science,” he mumbles against the skin there, reaching down to take wrap his hand around both their dicks.

Stiles rolls his eyes. “You don’t have to be a dick about it— _fuck_ —” Stiles gasps, caught off guard when Derek’s hand starts moving, jerking them off in tandem.

Derek hums back, raising his head for another kiss. Stiles bites at Derek’s bottom lip until his mouth falls open, panting heavy against Stiles’ as he concentrates, a wrinkle forming between his eyebrows. 

Stiles digs his fingers into Derek’s ass, pulling them closer, muttering “come on, come on,” toes curling as Derek’s hand starts to speed up, faster and faster, until it’s good, so fucking _good_.

Stiles ducks his head, watching the curl of Derek’s fingers, the quick twist of his wrist, hears Derek start breathing out short, small moans on each upstroke like he’s close, and Stiles is—

“Almost there,” he groans, voice high, throwing a hand down to squeeze around Derek’s until it’s nothing but tight and warm, Derek mouthing “fuck” against his chin and that familiar heat blooming in Stiles’ stomach, stretching down his thighs, behind his knees—

Derek swipes his thumb over the head of Stiles’ dick and that’s it, he’s done for, shuddering out a long sigh as he comes, Derek whispering “perfect—you’re—Jesus _Christ_ —” before dropping onto an elbow, rocking into the curve of Stiles’ hip, frantic, twisting his fingers around Stiles’, squeezing tight as he comes, eyes fluttering closed, mouth open on a silent cry.

When it’s over, he collapses face down on the bed next to Stiles.

“Well, that was fun,” Stiles breathes. “There’s another perk of having a boyfriend: double dicks.”

“Mm,” Derek mumbles into the mattress.

Stiles admires Derek’s back while he recovers, the sheen of sweat over the curve and flex of each muscle.

“So your tattoo,” Stiles says, careful, shifting over to his side lay a hand flat against its center. “Stagnation. Progress. Is that…related to your family?”

Derek turns his head. “I got it after the fire. To remind myself to keep pushing through. To keep trying.” He swallows, face heavy. “I want to be at a place where I’d know they’d be proud of me.”

Stiles smiles sadly, brushing a hand lazily through Derek’s hair. He looks young and soft and sleepy, like so many things Stiles would never have thought to want for himself.

“Promise me you’ll at least take a break every once and a while.”

Derek takes hold of Stiles’ wrist, kisses his palm. “I’ll try. For you.” 

**

“I have…eggs and more eggs,” Stiles says, later, head buried deep in the depths of his refrigerator. “And hot sauce?”

“That could work, actually,” Derek says, tugging at the waistband of Stiles’ briefs, pulling him backwards.

“Words are your friend, Derek,” Stiles huffs. He leans against the counter, watching Derek bend over to open one of the bottom drawers. He nudges at Derek’s butt with his foot.

“If I drop these,” Derek says, eyebrows raised as he turns around with two handfuls of eggs, “you are going to _starve_.”

Stiles snorts. “I’m a poor college kid. I’d make it somehow.”

He watches Derek rummage around his kitchen in all his shirtless, pantless glory, pulling out a couple pans and fiddling with the stove.

“So you can cook, too,” Stiles observes. He clears his throat and announces, “You are clearly the proper suitor for me. My father must be contacted at dawn.” 

Derek looks up from the bowl he’s mixing the eggs in. “Was that supposed to be a…British accent? You sounded like a cartoon bird.”

Stiles barks out a laugh. “I’ve changed my mind,” he bellows, voice still twisted into his terrible imitation of British royalty. “Off with your head!”

Derek flicks egg batter at him.

It turns out Derek really can cook. He makes them some mean hot sauce omelets, which they eat back in Stiles’ bed, huddled close together in his sheets.

Stiles groans as he takes the first bite. “So _good_.”

“Laura and Cora can’t cook for their lives,” Derek says. “After the fire, we ate boxed mac and cheese for a week straight. I bought us a cookbook before we died of malnourishment from all that orange powder.”

Stiles swallows and nods. “I used to cook for me and my dad all the time. Still do, actually, to give him something other than microwaved meals to eat every once and a while.”

“It’s good you take care of him.”

“It’s good you took care of your sisters,” Stiles says, nudging Derek’s shoulder with his own.

Derek looks down at his plate and smiles. “You know, back in your hotel room, after you woke me up and I was watching you freak out about us being married… I thought we’d never get along. I couldn’t imagine us having anything in common.”

Stiles thinks back to that morning, how calm Derek had been in the face of Stiles’ panic, the way he threw back everything Stiles doled out at him, his willingness to give Stiles a way out of the mess he’d gotten himself into. 

“I think…” Stiles says, scraping his fork across his plate, meeting Derek’s gentle stare. “I think I liked you right from the start. Even if it took me a little while to realize it.”

Derek kisses Stiles on the nose. “I’m glad you did.”

**

“You’re still here,” Stiles says the next morning, standing by the side of his bed as Derek blinks his eyes open.

Derek freezes. “I—”

“Dude.” Stiles smiles. “I am totally kidding.”

He leans in to kiss Derek good morning. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. This is the longest and first piece of fiction I have uploaded, which I started writing in July, ran out of ideas for, quit, forgot about when I went off to college, and then restarted last week during Christmas break. It's my baby, really, and I'll miss thinking about at all hours of the day and agonizing over it at 3 in the morning in a caffeine-fueled rush. 
> 
> 2\. Elvis ended up playing a weird but accidentally large role in this story, from the title to Derek's favorite song to who their wedding officiant was possibly dressed as. I just thought that was funny. 
> 
> 3\. Thank you so much for reading/commenting/leaving kudos! I hoped you enjoyed it!


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